THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Author— 1896. 


UNCLE    CHARLIE'S 
POEP1S. 

MIRTHFUL  AND  OTHERWISE. 


Charles  Noel  Douglas. 


TO  MILLIONS  Or  FRIENDS, 

SCATTERED  BROADCAST  O'ER  THIS  MAJESTIC  LAND, 
1  DEDICATE  THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  OP  VERSE. 


Brooklyn,  N.  7.: 

Charles  Noel  Douglas, 

1299   Park  Place. 


COPTEIGHT,  1906,  BY 

J.  8.  OGILVIE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


?s 


PREFACE. 

S 

T  the  urgent  request  of  many  friends,  who  have 
Taeen  kind  enough  to  take  an  interest  in  the  verse 
I  have,  from  time  to  time,  contributed  to  vari 
ous  magazines,  I  have  gotten  together  a  number 
of  my  published  efforts,  and  herewith  present  them  to  the 
public. 

This  little  work  is  called  a  book  of  poems,  but,  as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  it  does  not  contain  a  single  poem,  for  which  I 
am  thankful,  as  publishers  inform,  me  that  poetry  does  not 
sell. 

All  I  claim  for  this  book  is  that  it  contains  some  verse 
which  may,  possibly,  bring  a  smile  to  the  faces  of  those 
who  read  it,  if  those  readers  are  not  hopeless  dyspeptics,  or 
confirmed  hypochondriacs. 

If  the  mirth-seeker  finds  nothing  laughable  in  the  so- 
called  humorous  verse,  perhaps  in  the  section  devoted  to 
the  more  serious  subjects  he  may  discover  sufficient  excuse 
for  indulging  his  risibilities  to  his  heart's  content. 

In  any  event,  I  hope  the  reader  will  mark  the  note  of 
cheerfulness  and  optimism  which  runs  through  the  book, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  every  line  in  this  volume  has  been 
written  during  ten  years  of  shut-in  life,  six  of  which  were 
passed  in  the  wards  of  hospitals  and  institutions — among 
scenes  which  cannot  be  recalled  without  a  shudder. 

THE  AUTHOB. 
3 

904176 


AN   APPRECIATION. 

WISH  to  tender  my  sincere  thanks  to  those  pub 
lishers  who  have  so  kindly  permitted  me  to  re 
produce,  in  this  volume,  verse  that  has  appeared 
in  their  publications. 
I  have  to  thank  the  New  York  Herald  for  permitting 
me  to  use  the  "Glorious  Fourth  and  How  We  Got  It,"  and 
"When  the  New  Boy  Came."  The  Christian  Herald  for 
"God  Knows  Best,"  "God  Will  Take  Care  of  Me,"  "Sun 
days  in  the  Old  Church,"  "Preach  Jesus  to  Me,"  "Cobbler 
Jim,"  etc.  St.  Nicholas  for  "Willie  on  Classic  Fiction." 
Judge  for  "A  Cautious  Lover,"  and  "When  Casey  Came 
Home  Sober."  The  Designer  for  "Sidney  Alexander  and 
His  Halidome,"  "Belinda  Anne."  The  Delineator  for 
"What  Boys  and  Girls  Are  Made  Of."  The  Woman's  Home 
Companion  for  "Don't  Forget  That  Gun,"  and  "When 
Baby  Writes  a  Letter."  Recreation  for  "When  Father 
Hangs  a  Picture  on  the  Wall,"  "The  Predicament  of  a 
Poet."  The  Ladies'  World  for  "Baby's  First  Sunday  in 
Church."  W.  H.  Gannet,  Esq.,  of  Comfort,  for  "Turkey 
and  Pie,"  "The  Art  of  Being  Good,"  "Santa  Glaus,"  "Wil 
lie's  Opinion  of  Babies,"  "Squash,"  "The  Confessions  of  a 
Dunce,"  "He  Knew  It  Then,"  etc.  The  Currier  Boyce  Co., 
of  The  Woman's  World  and  Homefolks,  for  "Mandy  and 
Si,"  "Since  Katie  Went  to  Cooking-school,"  "God  Knows," 
"When  Pop  Played  Santa  Glaus,"  "The  Little  Bird  That's 
Always  Telling  Ma,"  "Butt  Right  In,"  "Careful  Ma,"  "A 
Few  Things  to  Be  Thankful  For,"  "Actor's  Story,"  "So 


6  AN   APPRECIATION. 

Did  I,"  "Hard-Luck  Story,"  "A  Novelty  at  Last,"  "Mat 
ter  of  Money."  Spare  Moments  for  "The  Boy  Who 
Talked  and  the  Boy  Who  Did."  The  Sunday  Telegraph 
for  "The  Actor's  Prayer,"  "Summer  Plans,"  "Tragedian's 
Lament,"  "Confessions  of  a  Villain,"  "The  Family  The 
atric,"  etc.  The  Brown  Book,  of  Boston,  for  "The  Tragedy 
of  an  Apple."  New  Idea  for  "Dollie's  Sick."  The  Class 
mate  for  "Passing  of  the  Old  Church,"  and  Home  Life, 
Chicago,  for  the  greater  portion  of  the  biographical  sketch. 

THE  AUTHOE. 


A  BIOGEAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

February,  1897,  after  some  years  of  failing  health, 
I  was  stricken  with  an  obscure  nervous  trouble, 
which  rendered  me  almost  entirely  helpless, 
and  put  me  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  which  I  have 
never  left. 

Sickness  is  an  expensive  matter,  and  it  forced  me  event 
ually  to  sacrifice  a  home  and  surroundings  of  refinement 
for  a  ward  in  a  hospital.  After  nine  months  of  hospital 
life,  as  the  doctors  could  do  nothing  for  me,  I  was  listed 
as  a  chronic  case,  and  informed  that  I  must  vacate,  or  go 
to  a  public  hospital,  which  is  a  polite  term  for  the  poor- 
house.  My  means  were  exhausted,  and,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  one  or  two  faithful  friends,  everyone  had  forgotten 
me. 

I  realized  the  plight  I  was  in,  and  begged  the  hospital 
authorities  to  give  me  a  few  days'  grace.  My  request  was 
granted,  and  then  if  ever  a  man  prayed  for  help  and  guid 
ance  I  did.  I  did  not  pray  in  vain,  and  I  never  have.  An 
inspiration  came  to  me  to  write  the  words  for  a  song.  Coon 
songs  were  then  all  the<rage,  and,  as  I  had  sung  many  dur 
ing  my  stage  career,  I  decided  I  would  write  a  coon  song — 
and,  on  borrowed  paper  and  with  a  borrowed  pen  and  ink, 
the  words  of  my  first  lyric  were  dictated  to  a  fellow-patient. 
I  had  not  held  a  pen  in  months,  and  had  almost  forgotten 
how  to  write,  but  my  amanuensis  was  patient  and  skilful, 
and  eventually  got  my  lines  on  paper.  A  borrowed  envelope 

7 


g  A  BIOGRAPHICAL.  SKETCH. 

and  borrowed  stamp  took  my  little  verses  to  a  very  cele 
brated  actress.  Two  days  of  agonizing  suspense  passed, 
and  then,  to  my  intense  delight  and  unspeakable  joy,  a  let 
ter  was  brought  me  from  the  famous  singer,  and  inside  the 
envelope  was  a  check  for  twenty  dollars.  That  night  I 
thought  out  another  song  "pome,"  and  Weber  and  Fields, 
then  in  the  zenith  of  their  fame,  sent  me  twenty  dollars  for 
it.  Forty  dollars  now  were  mine.  I  felt  richer  than  Rocke 
feller,  and  if  happiness  were  wealth  I  certainly  had  the  oil 
king  beaten  to  a  finish.  With  my  forty  dollars  I  moved 
to  another  hospital,  and  here  I  wrote  iny  first  magazine 
poem — "Sundays  in  the  Old  Church" — which,  after  months 
of  effort,  I  sold  to  the  Christian  Herald  for  twelve  dollars. 
My  next  product,  an  eight-verse  humorous  "pome,"  went  to 
Youth's  Companion,  and  brought  me  twenty-five  dollars. 

My  initial  successes  were  too  much  for  me  in  my  in 
tensely  delicate  condition,  and  soon  after  moving  to  the 
new  hospital,  I  collapsed,  and  for  three  months  hardly  knew 
my  own  name.  From  this  on  it  it  was  one  long,  grim, 
heart-breaking,  soul-crushing  fight,  but  I  was  not  in  the 
least  discouraged.  In  the  slang  of  the  day,  I  was  up 
against  a  tough  proposition,  but  it  is  the  same  thing  every 
other  man  has  had  to  experience  who  has  sought  a  living 
by  the  pen.  One  piece,  I  remember,  in  which  I  had  sub 
lime  faith — a  faith  afterward  justified  by  events — I  sent 
out  twenty-nine  times.  It  was  a  set  of  humorous  verses 
entitled  "The  Tragedy  of  an  Apple,"  and  it  nearly  became 
the  tragedy  of  a  would-be  versifier  before  I  got  through 
with  it,  for  after  it  had  been  rejected  twenty-eight  times, 
for  once  my  optimism  left  me  and  I  think  I  broke  down. 
At  last  I  sent  the  verses  off  on  their  twenty-ninth  mission, 
to  the  Brown  Boole,  of  Boston,  and  a  substantial  check  was 
the  result.  It  had  taken  me  two  years  to  sell  that  poem — 
but  I  sold  it! 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL,   SKETCH.  9 

I  now  moved  to  a  home  for  incurables,  where  I  spent 
three  years,  in  an  attic,  under  a  tin  roof,  roasted  in  sum 
mer,  frozen  in  winter.  My  companions  were  a  blind  man, 
a  speechless  and  helpless  paralytic,  a  lunatic,  and  a  poor 
young  man  who  had  broken  his  back  when  seven  years  old 
and  had  spent  all  his  life  in  institutions.  Here  I  wrote 
some  two  hundred  song  lyrics  and  poems,  the  majority  of 
which  I  marketed.  Sometimes  my  funds  were  so  low  I 
•would  have  to  practically  give  my  work  away.  Once  cir 
cumstances  were  such  that  I  sacrificed  an  entire  book  of 
juvenile  verse  for  seven  dollars.  The  seven  dollars  were 
sent  me  by  check,  the  check  I  gave  to  a  friend  to  cash,  he 
never  returned — the  work  of  two  months  went  with  him. 

My  one  hope  and  prayer  had  been  that  I  might  once 
more  have  a  home  of  my  own,  where  I  could  again  sur 
round  myself  with  those  little  things  a  man  of  refined  and 
artistic  tastes  craves  so  much.  At  times  I  despaired  of  ever 
accomplishing  my  object,  but  I  toiled  on,  hoped  on,  prayed 
on,  and,  finally,  in  September,  1902,  after  close  on  six 
years  of  unspeakable  misery,  I  turned  my  back  on  the  hos 
pitals  forever,  I  trust,  and  moved  into  a  home  of  my  own. 

Can  you  imagine  what  that  change  meant  to  me?  For 
three  years  I  hadn't  seen  a  vestige  of  nature.  Spring  came ; 
I  saw  not  its  verdant  splendor;  Fall  rolled  on,  but  the 
gorgeous  tints  of  autumn  were  not  for  me.  I  could  only 
tell  the  seasons  from  the  heat  or  cold.  At  night  the  blind 
man  was  in  the  habit  of  wandering  around,  and  losing  his 
bed.  He  invariably  passed  his  hand  all  over  my  face, 
my  nose — which  is  of  generous  proportions — being  the 
landmark  by  which  he  located  his  lost  sleeping-place  The 
demented  gentleman  used  to  keep  me  in  a  constant  state 
of  suspense,  and,  at  times,  almost  in  a  state  of  terror,  for 
often  no  nurse  appeared  for  an  hour  or  more,  and  then  the 
maniac  would  come  and  inform  me  that  I  was  trespassing 


10  A   BIOGRAPHICAL.  SKETCH. 

on  his  property,  and  if  I  didn't  vacate  at  once  he  would 
be  under  the  painful  necessity  of  assisting  me  through  the 
window.  At  such  times  the  most  delicate  tact  and  alert 
mental  gymnastics  were  necessary,  or  there  would  have 
been  a  tragedy.  On  these  occasions  I  reminded  him  that 
he  had  sold  me  half  his  property  the  night  before,  and  the 
gentleman  opposite  (the  old  blind  man)  had  witnessed  the 
sale  and  had  the  deed  in  his  possession.  This  immediately 
sent  him  scurrying  to  the  blind  man,  who  was  quite  pow 
erful  and  pugnacious,  and,  while  the  imaginary  deed  was 
being  discussed  by  them,  I  was  forgotten,  and  help  came. 
Sometimes  this  ruse  would  not  work,  and  then  I  always 
had  an  old  newspaper  handy,  and  the  lunatic  would  often 
spend  half  an  hour  examining  the  signatures  (?)  and 
terms  of  the  deed,  and  (thank  heaven)  he  invariably  re 
turned  to  tell  me  it  was  "all  correct." 

I  got  a  good  deal  of  entertainment  out  of  this  poor  soul, 
for  usually  he  was  in  excellent  humor,  but  I  always  had  to 
do  my  work  with  one  eye  on  my  paper  and  one  on  him, 
for  I  never  knew  what  wild  scheme  was  hatching  in  his 
poor,  distracted  brain. 

You  can  imagine,  I  say,  what  my  delight  was  to  leave 
all  these  scenes  of  suffering,  and  have  my  bed  in  a  win 
dow  which  gave  me  a  splendid  view  of  the  world,  of  which 
I'd  seen  nothing  in  six  years.  I  shall  never  forget  my  ex 
citement  as  I  watched  the  first  automobile  chug-chug  past 
on  the  street  below.  But  perhaps  the  most  delightful  and 
refreshing  sight  was  a  band  of  lovely  children — darling  lit 
tle  tots — playing  "Bing-a-ring,  a-rosy"  on  the  lawn  of  a 
house  opposite  me.  Ah,  me!  how  little  we  appreciate  the 
small  things  of  life  until  we  lose  them,  and  then,  and  not 
until  then,  do  we  realize  what  we've  lost.  For  a  week  I 
could  do  nothing  but  gaze  out  of  my  window,  and  laugh 
and  sing,  and  thank  God  I  was  alive.  It  was  glorious !  In 


A    BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH.  H 

March,  1903,  my  connection  with  Comfort  began.  This  was 
an  epoch  in  my  life,  as  it  brought  me  the  abiding  love  of 
six  millions  of  people.  As  "Uncle  Charlie,"  in  Comfort, 
and  "Uncle  George,"  in  Homefolks,  I  have  become  an  in 
stitution  in  nearly  two  millions  of  homes. 

I  have  also  social  departments  in  several  other  maga 
zines,  and  have  the  great  privilege  of  talking  monthly  to 
and  reaching  sixteen  millions  of  people.  In  connection 
with  Comfort  I  have  organized  a  league  of  young  folks, 
everyone  of  whom  is  solemnly  pledged  to  do  "sunshine 
work" — work  that  will  make  this  world  a  better  place  to 
live  in.  I  have  organized  similar  leagues  in  other  maga 
zines,  and  my  mail  in  connection  with  this  work  ranges 
from  one  to  two  thousand  letters  per  week  the  year  round. 
Through  these  leagues  I  have  been  able  to  brighten  the 
lives,  and  obtain  substantial  aid  for  hundreds  of  poor,  help 
less  sick  and  suffering  "shut-ins"  scattered  all  over  this 
broad  land.  The  love  these  unfortunates  lavish  on  me  is 
most  touching  and  beautiful,  though  not  one  of  these  sus 
pect  that  my  physical  condition  is  no  better  than  their  own. 

I  have  written  some  seven  hundred  song  lyrics,  also 
"pomes"  during  my  invalidism,  and  have  had  one  song 
that  was  sung  all  around  the  world.  I  have  also  compiled 
a  huge  dictionary  of  quotations,  in  addition  to  my  other 
work.  This  work,  in  which  I  have  gathered  the  world's 
literary  gems,  consists  of  two  volumes  of  one  thousand  pages 
each,  and  is  entitled  "Forty  Thousand  Sublime  and  Beau 
tiful  Thoughts."  It  is  probably  the  most  complete  work  of 
quotations  in  existence,  and,  though  I  do  not  claim  it  is 
the  best,  it  certainly  contains  twice  as  much  matter  as 
can  be  found  in  any  other  compilation  of  this  kind. 

I  have  mentioned  this  quotation  work  to  show  that  a 
man  on  a  bed  of  sickness  may  still  do  good  work  and  ac 
complish  much  that  is  useful,  if  he  will  develop,  to  the  ut- 


12  A   BIOGRAPHICAL,   SKETCH. 

most,  any  latent  talent  he  may  possess,  and  take  advantage 
of  every  opportunity  that  may  come  his  way. 

Personally,  I  had  never  written  a  line  until  circum 
stances  forced  me  to  make  a  supreme  effort,  and,  as  the 
result  of  that  effort  meant  practically  life  or  death  to  me, 
you  can  imagine  that  I  threw  my  very  soul  into  the  task. 

To  those  millions  of  friends  who  know  me  through  the 
pages  of  popular  magazines,  I  dedicate  this  little  book, 
and  I  trust  that  its  pages  will  still  further  strengthen  the 
ties  of  affection  that  already  exist  between  us,  and  add  to 
that  loving  appreciation  which  will  ever  be  the  inspira 
tion  of  my  shut-in  life  Gratefully, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 


WHEN  FATHER  HANGS  A  PICTURE  ON  THE 
WALL. 


HEN  Father  hangs  a  picture  on  the  wall  there's 

lots  of  fun, 

An'  everyone  aroun'  the  house  has  got  to  move 
an'  run. 


The  oP  step-ladder's  fixed  in  place,  the  hammer's  nowhere's 

round, 
An'  when  they  start  to  look  for  nails,  the  nails  ain't  to  he 

found. 

Pa  shouts  aloud  his  orders,  an'  Ma  says  'twas  ever  thus, 
When  a  man  starts  in  to  do  some  work  there's  bound  to 

be  a  fuss. 

An'  Pa  says  women's  useless  things  an'  always  have  to  call 
A  man  if  they  should  want  to  hang  a  picture  on  the  wall. 

Pa  gets  a  roll  of  picture  wire,  an'  then  a  measurin'  tape, 
An'  says  he'll  show  the  women  how  to  put  the  house  in 

shape. 

Off  to  the  parlor  then  he  goes  and  partly  there  disrobes, 
And  bangs  the  ladder  right  against  the  shandyleer  and 

globes, 

15 


16  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

Then  shouts  for  Ma,  an'  gives  her  fits  because  she  didn't 

fly 

To  warn  him  when  the  ladder  to  the  shandyleer  was  nigh. 
Then  Baby  'mongst  the  broken  glass  unnoticed  starts  to 

crawl. 
Oh !  there's  heaps  of  fun  when  Father  hangs  a  picture  on 

the  wall. 

They  bandage  up  the  Baby,  an'  they  sweep  up  all  the  glass, 
An'  Pa  says,  at  hangin'  pictures,  nobody's  in  his  class. 
There's  artists  in  most  every  line,  Pa  'lows,  but  you  can  bet 
That  for  real  artistic  hanging,  no  one's  equalled  him  as 

yet. 
Then  he  holds  a  nail  between  his  teeth,  and  Ma  remarks 

she's  glad, 
As  now  at  least  his  tongue  is  stopped,  an'  that  just  makes 

Pa  mad, 

An'  down  he  lays  the  law  to  Ma,  who  goes  out  in  the  hall, 
An'  leaves  Pa  in  his  glory  hangin'  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Pa  measures  up  the  wall  an'  squints  and  then  starts  in  to 

back, 

So  as  to  get  a  better  view,  and  gives  his  head  a  crack; 
An'  oh !  the  things  that  poor  Pa  said,  I'm  glad  no  one  was 

near 

When  his  bald  head  bumped  up  against  that  parlor  shan 
dyleer. 
Then  up  the  ol'  step-ladder,  nail  in  mouth,  he  starts  to 

climb 
An'  says  he  'lows  that  picture's  just  as  good  as  fixed  this 

time, 
Then  hits  that  nail  a  mighty  whack,  an'  "murder !"  starts 

to  bawl, 
For  it's  not  the  picture,  but  Pa's  thumb's  got  nailed  against 

the  wall. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  17 

The  damaged  thumb  is  bandaged  up,  the  head  is  plastered, 

then 

Up  that  old  ladder,  "do  or  die,"  once  more  Pa  sails  agen; 
An'  then  he  goes  for  that  ol'  nail,  an'  hits  it  such  a  swipe 
An'  not  only  drives  it  through  the  wall,  but  through  an' 

ol'  gas  pipe, 

An'  just  as  we  all  smell  the  gas,  the  ladder  gives  a  crack 
An'  crash  it  goes  an'  sends  poor  Pa  a-sprawlin'  on  his  back. 
His  ankle  sprained,  for  Doctor  Jones  we  send  a  hurry  call 
To  tell  him  Pa  is  sick  with  "picturitis  on  the  wall." 

The  Baby's  cut  with  broken  glass,  an,'  as  for  poor  ol'  dad, 
He's  sprained  a  foot,  an'  lost  a  thumb,  his  head's  cut  awful 

bad. 
The  shandyleer  is  wrecked  for  life,  the  gas  it's  made  Ma 

ill, 
An'  'twill  take  Pa's  savings  for  a  year  to  pay  the  plumber's 

bill. 

The  parlor  looks  as  if  a  cyclone  slept  in  it  a  week, 
Or  a  band  of  Texas  steers  had  been  there  playin'  hide  and 

seek; 
An'  ever  since  that  day,  Dad,  he's  been  singin'  mighty 

small, 
An'  Ma,  not  Pa,  henceforth  will  hang  the  pictures  on  the 

wall. 


18  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 


THE   INTERRUPTED    SERENADE. 
(By  kind  permission  of  Francis  Wilson,  Esq.) 

'M  under  thy  casement,  my  own  lady  love, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 
The  stars  in  their  glory  are  shining  above, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 
OE,  you  are  my  angel,  my  idol,  my  queen, 
Excuse  my  guitar — at  music  I'm  green, 
I  bought  it  a  bargain — a  dollar  sixteen. 
Twang,  twang,  twang. 

Your  eyes  make  the  stars  of  the  Heavens  turn  green, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 
At  least  sweet  they  would,  if  those  eyes  could  be  seen, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 

Oh,  come  to  thy  casement,  fair  lady,  come  quick ; 
I'm  weary  of  waiting,  I'm  sad  and  heart  sick, 
Excuse  that  last  note — someone  threw  a  brick. 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 

The  roses  are  sleeping;  they  dream,  love,  01  you, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 
The  breeze  murmurs  softly ;  it  sighs  for  thee  too, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 

It  moans  at  your  casement,  oh,  open  it  now. 
'Twill  waft  you  my  kisses,  to  print  on  your  brow. 
There's  Jones'  Maria — did  you  hear  her  me-row? 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  19 

All,  could  I  but  hear  the  soft  notes  of  your  voice, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 
All  Nature  would  wake,  and  with  me  rejoice, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 

Oh,  come  to  your  lattice,  one  word  only  speak. 
'Tis  early,  too  early,  your  slumbers  to  seek. 
My  Gr  string  has  "bust,"  my  voice  sprung  a  leak. 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 

Oh,  list  to  my  pleadings,  my  soul  is  on  fire, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 
I  yearn  for  thee  madly,  my  heart's  dear  desire, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 

Ah,  why  do  those  eyelids  in  slumber  now  droop, 
And  o'er  your  white  shoulders  your  fair  tresses  loop. 
There's  Pop  with  a  shotgun  come  out  on  the  stoop. 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 

Oh,  come  to  that  window ;  well,  you  take  the  cake, 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 
You  snore  like  a  cyclone,  the  dead  you  would  wake. 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 
I'm  down  in  the  mud,  the  bulldogs  on  top ; 
I'm  plugged  full  of  buckshot;  I  guess  I  will  stop. 
Tra  la  la,  sweetness,  I'm  off — here's  the  Cop  ! 

Twang,  twang,  twang. 


0(3  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

DON'T   FORGET    THAT    GUN. 
A  Little  Boy's  Letter  to  Santa  Claus. 

EAR  Sandy  Claws,  I  guess  it's  time  I  wrote  you 

just  a  line, 
To  hope  you're  well,  an'  tell  you  that  I'm  feelin' 

extry  fine. 
An',  oh!  I'm  lookin'  forward  to  your  comin'  roun'  this 

year, 
An'  I  thought  I'd  let  you  know  just  what  to  bring  me, 

Sandy  dear. 

I  know  you're  awful  good  an'  kind  to  little  boys  like  me, 
An'  that  is  just  the  reason  I'm  a-writin'  to  you,  see  ? 
An3  'fore  I  mention  other  things,  an'  through  the  list  I 

run, 
I'll  be  awful  grateful,  Sand}7,  if  you'll  bring  along  a  gun. 

It's  one  of  them  nice  "twenty-twos,"  dear  Sandy,  that  I 

need, 

The  sort  a  feller  uses  when  he's  got  a  panther  treed, 
Or  is  holdin'  up  the  Deadwood  coach,  an'  handy  for  to  use 
In  standin'  off  a  whoopin'  band  of  Rapahoes  or  Siouxs. 
They're  handy,  too,  when  Jones'  cat  comes  roun'  our  yard 

to  sing, 

Or  Browns'  pigeons  squat  about  an'  to  the  fence-rail  cling. 
There'll  be  a  most  excitin'  time,  an',  oh  !  such  heaps  of  fun, 
If  you'll  only  mind,  dear  Sandy,  an'  bring  along  THAT 

gun. 

I  need  a  pony  next  thing,  dear  Sandy,  an'  if  you 
Will  bring  him  roun'  I'll  show  the  boys  some  circus  tricks 

that's  new. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  21 

He  won't  go  in  the  stockin's  I'm  hangin'  on  the  bed, 
But  you  can  leave  him  in  the  barn,  an'  that'll  do  instead ; 
An'  'twill  save  you  lots  of  trouble,  for  it  makes  a  heap  of 

mess 

A-luggin'  of  a  pony  down  a  chimney-flue,  I  guess ; 
An'  bring  a  saddle,  bridle,  bit — a  nickel-plated  one — 
Likewise  a  ton  of  hay  and  feed,  an'  DON'T  forget  that 

GUN! 

I  guess  an  autermobill  will  be  the  next  upon  the  list 
(You  needn't  bring  no  kerosene,  there's  heaps  that  won't 

be  missed). 
I  don't  know  how  you'll  get  it  down  the  chimney  or  the 

flue, 
An'  my  stockin's  they  won't  hold  it,  but  I  guess  my  pants'll 

do, 

For  in  one  leg  alone  last  year  you  put  a  train  of  cars ; 
But  if  they  won't  do,  an'  you  won't  tell,  I'll  go  an'  borrow 

Pa's. 

There'd  be  one  leg  for  the  pony,  an'  in  the  other  one 
You  could  stow  the  autermobill  an'  have  room  left  for  the 

GUN. 

You  can  bring  along  some  peanuts — about  a  half  a  sack — 
You  needn't  bring  no  apples,  for  Ma  she's  got  a  stack, 
An'  we're  all  fixed  up  for  turkey,  an'  there  ain't  no  lack  of 

pie, 

But  drop  a  ton  of  candy  an'  ice-cream  as  you  go  by. 
The  sled's  wore  out,  an'  so's  the  skates,  so  mind  an'  put  'em 

down, 
An'  fetch  a  horn  that  makes  a  noise  that's  heard  all  over 

town; 

An'  that  ain't  half  that's  on  my  list — in  fact,  I  ain't  begun. 
Oh !  make  a  note  for  oranges,  an'  DON'T  FORGET  THAT 

GUN! 


22  UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Pa  says,  dear  Sandy,  I  should  think,  at  this  time  of  the 

year, 
Of  other  things  besides  just  what  you're  going  to  bring  me, 

dear. 

That  I  should  bear  in  mind  just  what  took  place  on  Christ 
mas  Day, 

Of  "tidin's  glad,  good-will  to  men,"  an'  then  goes  on  to  say, 
That  you're  only  nice  an'  kind  to  little  boys  that's  good, 
Who  never  tear  their  pants  an'  clothes,  but  split  the  kin- 

dlin'-wood, 

So,  Sandy  dear,  remember  me,  an'  all  them  bad  boys  shun, 
An'  bring  what  Pa  calls  "peace  on  earth,"  an'  DON'T 
FORGET  THAT  GUN!!! 


WILLIE    ON    CLASSIC    FICTION. 

SUPPOSE  that  Aunt  Jemima  thought  she'd  done  a 

powerful  lot, 
When  she  brought  me  this  old  novel  by  that  feller 

Walter  Scott, 

And  another  one  by  Dickens,  or  some  funny  name  like  that, 
An'  Pa  says  that  I  must  read  'em,  an'  has  laid  the  law  down 

flat, 

That  my  much-loved  yellow  story  books  forever  I  irmst  quit. 
So  here  I'm  tackling  Ivanhoe,  and  don't  like  the  thing  a  bit, 
For,  though  I'm  at  the  second  page,  to  my  intense  regret, 
No  Indians  'peared  upon  the  scene,  and  no  one's  killed  as 
yet. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  23 

Pa's  told  me  quite  a  little  'bout  the  story  Ivanhoe, 

An'  says  the  whole  thing's  simply  grand  —  but,  oh !  it's 

dreadful  slow, 

An'  that  Kichard  Cur  de  Lion,  Pa  says  was  great  to  fight, 
Put  with  Pawnee  Jim  and  Buckskin  Bill  he  wouldn't  be  a 

bite, 

An'  as  for  Mr.  Robin  Hood,  an'  that  ole  six-foot  bow, 
Why,  with  Buckskin  Bill's  Win-chest-er,  he  wouldn't  have 

have  a  show. 

So,  Mister  Scott  and  Dickens,  if  Willie's  heart  you'd  win, 
Just  re-write  all  your  stories,  and  put  lots  of  Indians  in. 


Why,  Johnny  Jones,  he  tells  me  (and  he's  read  an  awful 

lot), 

That  in  some  of  these  ol'  stories  by  Dickens  and  by  Scott — 
(An'  when  young  Johnny  told  me,  oh !  I  laughed  until  I 

shook)  — 
Why,  he  says  that  they  make  one  murder  do  to  last  clean 

through  the  book. 

Of  course,  I  didn't  contradict,  but,  oh !  that  can't  be  true, 
That  for  just  one  single  murder  folks  would  read  a  whole 

book  through. 

So  I'm  startin'  to  investigate,  an',  oh !  how  mad  I  get, 
For,  here's  page  three,  and,  oh  !  dear  me !  nobody's  killed  as 

yet. 


Those  funny  days  of  chivalry,  that  Scott  tells  all  about, 
Where  knights  would  get  long  lances  to  pry  each  other  out. 
Of  them  ole  tin-can  suits  they  wore,  likewise  a  thick  mail 

shirt — 
Why,  them  cowards  must  have  dressed  like  that  for  fear  of 

getting  hurt. 


24  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Could  Buckskin  Bill  just  come  in  sight,  and  start  in  pump- 
in'  lead, 

An'  make  his  ole  Wm-chest-er  smoke,  them  knights  would 
all  drop  dead. 

An'  while  Bill  he  was  pumpin'  death,  he'd  smoke  a  cigar 
ette, 

Ah,  that's  the  type  of  hero  for  a  real  live  boy,  you  bet. 

Of  course,  in  them  ol'  bygone  days,  folks  wasn't  go-ahead, 
An'  didn't  know  the  proper  way  of  killing  people  dead. 
They  didn't  have  no  Maxim  guns,  an'  then,  maybe  agen, 
The  'Paches  and  Comanches  weren't  a  showin'  fight  just 

then. 
But,  with  modern  new  improvements,  they  kill  folks  off  in 

style, 

An'  can  knock  a  fly's  hind  leg  off,  an'  stand  off  twenty  mile. 
So  now  it's  just  plain  reason,  boys  in  this  progressive  age 
Want  gore  galore,  and  quite  a  score  of  killin's  to  a  page. 

So  just  take  your  classic  fiction  an'  lay  it  all  aside, 
While  I  will  sweep  the  western  plains,  an'  along  with  Wild 

Bill  ride. 

An'  haul  a  gay  ole  Gatling  way  upon  a  crested  butte,* 
An,  lay  low  till  the  Redskins  come,  an'  then  wade  in  an' 

shoot. 

Then  I'll  wed  an  Indian  Princess,  a  Sioux,  or  Chicksaw, 
An'  have  an  Indian  pony  and  an  Indian  ma-in-law. 
An'  I'll  write  a  book  about  it,  and  just  look  out  for  fun, 
For  every  Indian  living  will  be  killed  in  Chapter  One ! 


*Pronounced  bute;  is  a  lone  mountain. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  25 


TUKKEY   AN'   PIE. 

HANKSGIVIN'  DAY  has  come  again  an'  Pa  says 

there  is  much 
For  us  to  all  be  thankful  for,  an'  then  he  starts  to 

touch 
Upon  the  various  blessings  that  has  happened  through  the 

year, 
An'  the  way  that  Pa  just  gets  it  off,  'twould  do  you  good 

to  hear. 

He  says  the  harvest  has  been  good,  the  corn  an  extry  yield, 
An'  smilin'  plenty's  been  the  rule  in  pasture  and  in  field ; 
An'  for  these  acts  of  Providence,  the  turkey's  got  to  die, 
An'  wholesale  slaughter  will  be  waged  on  cranb'ry  sauce  an' 
pie. 

Pa  says,  of  all  the  years  he's  known,  the  one  that's  drawin' 

out 

Has  been  the  one  that  most  he's  got  to  thankful  be  about; 
The  summer-boarder  crop  this  year  has  been  the  finest  yet, 
An'  one  young  city  feller  Sister  Sue's  caught  in  her  net. 
She's  been  what  they  calls  "on  the  shelf"  an'  never  had  no 

beaus, 
An'  just  how  glad  she's  off  his  hands,  Pa  says,  there's  no 

one  knows ; 

An',  to  show  that  we  are  grateful  to  Providence,  we'll  try 
To  fill  ourselves  up  to  the  ears  with  turkey,  sauce  an'  pie. 

Pa  says  when  he  compares  this  year  with  other  years  he's 

known, 
This  one,  for  real  prosperity,  just  stands  out  all  alone; 


26  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

Grasshoppers  and  such  birds  of  prey  in  other  years  have 

come 

An'  chawed  up  everything  in  sight,  an'  never  left  a  crumb. 
But  this  year,  Pa  says,  they'se  been  good,  so  good,  with  joy 

we  laugh, 
To  think,  instead  of  all  the  crop,  this  year  they  took  but 

half; 

An',  for  this  special  favor,  we  think  we  all  should  try 
To  swim  around  in  cranb'ry  sauce  an'  pulverize  the  pie. 

Pa  says  he  thinks  a  great  improvement  steadily  goes  on 
An'  gives  a  feller  hope  an'  grist  with  which  to  build  upon. 
He  says,  this  year,  that  Fortune's  been  a-smilin'  extry  kind 
An'  int'rest  on  the  mortgage  now's  but  sixteen  months  be 
hind. 
An'  he  thinks,  with  great  exertion,  if  we  all  wade  in  an' 

work, 

An'  never  leave  a  thing  undone,  and  nothin'  round  us  shirk, 
The  organ  for  the  parlor,  on  installments,  we  can  buy, 
So  we'll  organize  a  fierce  assault  on  turkey,  sauce  an'  pie. 

Pa  says  the  tramps  that's  came  around  within  the  twelve 

months  gone, 

Shows  him  a  brighter  era  for  humanity  will  dawn. 
For  tramps  that  once  would,  for  a  crust,  split  up  a  cord  of 

wood, 
Now  help  themselves  and  kick  like  steers  unless  the  cook- 

in's  good. 

An',  as  for  them  mosquiters ;  well,  that's  a  thing  that  we 
Have  all  got  special  reasons  to  extry  thankful  be, 
For  they  were  but  a  puny  crop,  some  less  than  two  feet 

high, 
So  breathe  a  blessing  'tween  the  chunks  of  turkey,  sauce 

an'  pie. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  27 

Pa  says,  some  folks  they  make  him  tired  the  way  they  soon 

despair, 
An*  loads  that  hreak  some  backs,  to  Pa  are  trifles  light  as 

air; 
An'  there,  out  in  the  field,  he  sings  with  joy  the  livelong 

day 
To  think  the  skeeters,  bugs  an*  things  ain't  carried  him 

away, 

But  left  him  here  upon  the  farm,  his  back  to  labor  bent, 
To  pay  the  interest  on  loans  at  ninety-five  per  cent. 
An'  that  Pa  he  can  do  the  job's  sufficient  reason  why 
We've  wrastled  with  the  turkey  an'  got  hunkey  with  the 

pie. 


THE  NEW  BOY  CAME." 


HEN  the  New  Boy  came  to  school  we  awaited 

eagerly 
That  gentleman's  arrival,  and  wondered  if  he'd 

be 

A  valuable  addition  to  our  youthful  baseball  nine, 
And  did  his  trunk  contain  a  cake  or  other  gifts  divine, 
And  did  he  look  a  likely  chap  to  bully  or  to  lick, 
And  would  he  on  the  football  team  perchance  be  called  to 

kick, 

And  help  the  school  to  victory  in  many  a  glorious  game  — 
Were  the  questions  we  debated  when  the  New  Boy  came. 

Now,  Billy  Benson  said  he'd  heard  —  though  he  never  men 

tioned  where  — 
That  the  New  Boy  was  quite  big  and  strong  and  wouldn't 

take  a  "dare/* 


gg  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

That  he'd  pitch  a  ball  across  a  plate  with  most  terrific 

curve, 
And,  in  stealing   bases,  never  seemed  to  lack  prodigious 

nerve. 
At  jumping,  he  could  clear  with  ease  the  highest  kind  of 

gate, 
And  could  swim  a  mile  at  least — or  more — at  simply  record 

rate. 
Then  run  ten  miles  at  "hare  and  hounds"  and  never  fetch 

up  lame, 
Which  filled  our  souls  with  envy,  ere  the  New  Boy  came. 

Then  Aubrey  Montmorency  said  he  thought  that  Benson 

erred, 
And  from  little  hints  dropped  here  and  there  he  knew — or 

p'raps  inferred — 

That  the  gentleman  in  question  did  not  go  in  for  sport, 
But  studied  like  a  demon,  and  seclusion  he  would  court 
To  sweat  away  at  Virgil  until  he'd  nearly  drop, 
Then  scoop  in  all  the  prizes,  and  in  his  class  be  top. 
This  made  us  all  disgusted,  and  it  seemed  so  beastly  tame, 
And  we  looked  quite  tired  and  weary,  ere  the  New  Boy 

came. 

Then  Master  John  MacDonald  here  ventured  to  remark, 

That  he'd  private  information,  if  we'd  swear  to  keep  it 
dark, 

That  the  youth  we  were  expecting  was  not  studious  but 
rich! 

Which  excited  us  instanter  to  the  highest  kind  of  pitch ; 

His  parents  simply  rolled  in  wealth  and  delighted  to  in 
dulge 

Their  offspring's  evr'y  fancy — and  here  our  eyes  would 
bulge ! 


UNCLJ3  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  29 

And  to  school  with  less  than  fifty  "bones"  this  Crcesus 

never  came, 
Which  drove  us  simply  frantic,  ere  the  New  Boy  came. 

At  last  up  on  the  playground  that  youthful  soul  emerged, 
And  a  wild  and  curious  eager  crowd  like  Indians  round 

him  surged. 

But,  oh !  what  looks  of  horror,  for  there  before  us  stood 
A  little  nine-year  stripling,  just  removed  from  babyhood. 
A  measly,  puny  weakling,  a  tear-drop  in  each  eye ; 
Ah!  in  vain  had  some  fond  mother  that  morning  kissed 

them  dry; 
We  were  righteously  indignant  —  such  a  beastly,  awful 

shame ; 
We  were  horribly  disgusted  when  the  New  Boy  came. 

Ah !  -boys,  dear  boys,  appearances  will  very  oft  deceive ; 
Not  always  does  the  fairest  flower  the  sweetest  fragrance 

leave. 

The  puniest  of  youngsters  to  robust  strength  will  climb, 
And  captain  all  your  baseball  nines  —  if  you'll  hut  give 

them  time. 

For  even  mighty  Nelson  was  delicate  and  frail, 
Yet  gloriously  he  followed  in  Fame's  lustrous  blazing  trail. 
So  give  the  youngsters  time  to  grow  and  with  pride  you'll 

yet  acclaim 
The  memorable  occasion,  when  the  New  Boy  came. 


30  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 


SIDNEY  ALEXANDER  AND  HIS  HALIDOME. 

WAS  wondrous  the  impression  that  novels  used  to 

make 
On  the  plastic  brain  'of  boyhood,  and  the  forms 

it  used  to  take, 
And  the  influence  it  wielded  upon  the  youthful  mind 
Which  between  those  magic  coverlids  a  Paradise  would  find. 
If  you'd  watch  Sid  Alexander,  in  a  second  you  could  tell 
What  FICT-I-O-NAL  wizard  over  him  had  cast  his  spell, 
And  'twas  best  for  you  to  cut  and  run  when  o'er  some  well- 
thumbed  tome 
You  heard  him  mutter  awful  words  about  his  "halidome." 

We  used  to  blame  that  Wizard  of  the  North,  Sir  Walter 

Scott, 

For  half  the  dreadful  lickings  and  the  bruises  that  we  got. 
For  Sir  Walter  had  o'er  Sidney  an  influence  immense; 
When  'neath  his  spell  'twas  best  for  you  to  hide  or  climb  a 

fence. 
For  the  battle-axe  and  lances  and  the  swords  that  he  would 

wield 
Would  have  sent  the  great  Napoleon  in  terror  from  the 

field, 
For  there  never  was  an  army  'neath  the  Heavens'  eternal 

dome 
Could  face  Sid  Alexander  and  his  awful  halidome. 

In  mediaeval  castles  he  was  living  all  the  time, 
And  over  castellated  walls  and  postern  gates  he'd  climb 
To  rescue  lovely  maidens  who  were  lying  in  distress, 
And  for  reward  his  lips  upon  their  lily  hands  he'd  press. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.         31 

He'd  squires,  pages,  men-at-arms,  you'd  hear  his  charger 

snort., 
And  he  spoke  the  knightly  lingo  of  great  King  Arthur's 

Court. 
In  dungeons  deep  he'd  victims  chained,  the  wicked  little 

gnome, 
And  he  benisoned  and  blessed  'em  (?)  by  his  knightly  hali- 

dome. 


'Twas  then  you  had  to  watch  him,  for  danger  it  was  rife, 
For  though  he  didn't  really  have  a  battle-axe  or  knife, 
Yet  his  looks  were  so  bloodthirsty,  as  the  air  he  cleaved  and 

smote, 
'Twas  hard  to  think  a  shirt  of  mail  was  not  beneath  his 

coat. 
"Ah !  Caitiff  dogs !"  you'd  hear  him  cry,  and  swiftly  wheel 

about 

To  drive  the  hosts  of  Saladin  in  sanguinary  rout. 
Then  erstwhile  -as  a  Troubadour  he'd  sweetly  sing  of  home 
And  the  ladye-love  he  cherished,  by  his  knightly  halidome. 

'Twos  grand  to  watch  Sir  Sidney  when  he  bade  his  love 

adieu. 
You'd  have  killed  yourself  a-laughing  at  the  antics  he  went 

through. 

He'd  fix  a  sprig  of  lilac  for  her  colors  in  his  cap, 
Then  vault  upon  his  charger,  and  you'd  hear  his  visor  snap. 
Then  he'd  gallop  like  a  whirlwind  and  he'd  shout  his  battle 

cry, 

Then  homeward,  wildly  panting,  like  a  meteor  he'd  fly, 
And  doff  his  cap  and  wave  his  hand,  his  sword  to  heaven 

thrown, 
As  is  fit  for  knightly  lovers  when  they've  got  a  halidome. 


32  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

We  used  t®  feel  a  great  relief  when  Marryatt  he'd  read, 

For  then  he'd  drop  the  murd'rous  and  was  nautical  in 
stead. 

And  the  way  he  hitched  his  trousers  and  the  slang  that  he 
let  rip, 

Why,  anyone  would  think  he'd  spent  his  life  aboard  a  ship. 

The  sails  that  he'd  be  setting  and  the  anchors  he'd  let  go, 

The  boarding  parties  he'd  repel,  the  French  that  he  laid 
low, 

Oh !  'Twas  glorious  to  watch  him  steer  his  frigate  o'er  the 
foam, 

And  we  had  a  welcome  respite  from  his  awful  halidome. 

But  if  we  heard  blood-curling  whoops  and  sharp  staccato 
yells, 

We  knew  that  Sidney  then  was  in  his  wickedest  of  spells, 

And  was  reading  of  the  "red  men,"  as  per  Cooper  or  Mayne 
Eeid, 

And  we  rushed  at  once  for  safety  with  a  most  prodigious 
speed, 

For  Sidney  then  a  demon  was,  with  knife  and  tomahawk; 

And  'twould  freeze  your  blood  to  watch  the  way  his  enemies 
he'd  stalk. 

His  face  looked  simply  fiendish,  a  wicked,  yellow  chrome, 

And  we  prayed  he'd  quit  the  Indian  and  resume  his  hali 
dome. 

Oh,  Sidney  Alexander,  I  wonder  if  the  books 

That  now  you  read  still  influence  your  actions  and  your 

looks. 

For  if  they  do,  be  careful,  and  pray  forever  blot 
From  your  mature  perusal  works  by  Cooper  and  by  Scott. 
For  he  whose  temp'rament  is  of  the  impressionable  kind 
Should  keep  exciting  literature  forever  from  his  mind. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  33 

Bead  Paley's  "Evidences"  or  Gibbon's  "Fall  of  Eome," 
And  don't  use  naughty  words  about  that  dreadful  hali- 
dome. 


"BUTT   RIGHT   IN." 


HEN  the  work's  accummulating, 

As  the  work  will,  as  a  rule, 
An'  you're  sort'er  hesitating 
An'  cantak'rous  as  a  mule, 
An'  you  feel  so  all-fired  lazy 

That  your  tasks  you  want  to  shirk 
An'  it  fairly  makes  you  crazy 

'Cause  you  got  to  go  to  work; 
Don't  hesitate  and  rail  at  fate, 
An'  start  to  wag  your  chin, 
But  roll  up  sleeves — that's  what  achieves 
And  Butt 
Eight 
In! 

When  at  night  you're  out  a-calling, 

On  the  girl  that  you  adore, 
An'  your  courage  keeps  a-falling 

As  it  never  fell  before, 
An'  she  edges  closer  to  you 

With  a  world  of  thrilling  sighs, 
An'  her  glances  they  go  through  you 

As  the  lovelight  fills  her  eyes ; 
Don't  run,  you  jay,  that  ain't  no  way 

A  maiden's  heart  to  win. 
Just  whisper,  "Sis,  I  want  a  kiss;" 

Then  Butt 
Eight 
In! 


34;  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

When  you're  kind'er  speculating 

On  the  cost  of  married  life, 
An'  the  question  you're  debating 

Whether  you  can  keep  a  wife, 
For  your  wages  they  are  scanty 

So  you  think  you'll  throw  down  Sue, 
For  you're  too  durned  mean  to  ante 

Up  the  price  of  board  for  two, 
Don't  fool  aroun',  you  measly  clown 

And  count  the  cost;  but  shin 
To  Sue  or  Kate,  to  church  go  straight, 

And  Butt 
Eight 
In! 

Should  a  jug  of  old  Kentucky 

Chance  to  wander  'round  your  way ; 
You'll  say  it's  most  unlucky 

I  ain't  touching  none  to-day; 
I've  had  my  farewell  jag  on, 

I've  took  the  temp'rance  vow ; 
I'm  on  the  water  wagon, 

Carrie  Nation's  got  me  now ; 
Don't  let  it  pass,  you  durned  jackass, 

To  miss  it  would  be  sin, 
Throw  back  your  head,  "Here's  how !"  'nuff  said, 

Just  Butt 
Eight 
In! 

When  you  see  a  feller  critter 

A-stagg'ring  'long  life's  road ; 
An'  he  stops  so  he  can  get  'er 

Better  grip  upon  his  load; 


UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  35 

Then  beneath  his  burden  crushing 

With  an  anguished  moan  he  falls ; 
Swift  by  the  crowd  goes  rushing 

While  for  help  he  vainly  calls ; 
You  see  his  need,  don't  let  him  plead, 

A  crown  in  Heaven  you'll  win 
If  you  will  bear  his  load  of  care, 

So  Butt 

Eight 
In! 

You  fellers  what  are  dreaming 

Your  precious  hours  away ; 
You  idle  souls  who're  scheming 

To  keep  the  wolf  at  bay ; 
You  churlish  clods  who  ever 

Are  hoarding  up  the  pelf ; 
You  selfish  hulks  who  never 

Had  e'er  a  thought  but  self ; 
Don't  waste  in  dreams,  or  idle  schemes, 

Your  days,  but  work  begin, 
God  only  heeds  a  life  of  deeds 

So  Butt 

Eight 
In! 


36  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 


MANDY   AND    SI    IN    EUROPE. 

E'VE  been  across  to  Europe's  shore,  has  Mandy 

Jane  and  me, 

To  view  its  ancient  cities,  an'  its  aristocracy. 
We've  wandered  over  England,  Scotland,  Por 
tugal  and  France; 

At  Italy  and  Germany  we  likewise  took  a  glance. 
We  hopped  around  in  Switzerland,  in  Austria  and  when 
A  squint  we'd  took  and  had  a  look,  we  butted  home  agen, 
An'  though  we  both  sized  Europe  up,  including  Greece  and 

Spain, 

I'll  say  this  much,  no  place  can  touch  old  Pumpkin  Cor 
ners,  Maine. 

We  sailed  from  home,  and  went  to  Rome — a  queer  old  sort 

of  town. 

The  Coliseum's  roof  is  off,  the  walls  are  tumbling  down. 
The  whole  place  wanted  fixing  up  and  putting  in  repair ; 
They  ought  to  got  the  roof  put  on  before  we  landed  there. 
The  Pope  was  sick,  so  Mandy  quick  a  note  wrote  to  him 

thus: 
"Dear  Pope,  some  day  if  you  should  stray  down  East,  come 

board  with  us." 

We  tried  to  scan  the  Vatican,  but,  though  I  ain't  no  scholar, 
The  cans  we  got  in  Maine,  great  Scott !  beat  the  Vatican  all 

holler." 

Then  off  we  went  to  Athens,  bent  on  seeing  Greece,  but,  say, 
More  grease  will  rise  when  Mandy  fries  than  Greece  has  got 
to-day. 


UNCLE   CwARLJE'S   POEMS.  37 

Them  Grecian    pillers  they  were  fine,  but  Mandy  said, 

"What  hams ! 
If  we'd  them  marble  pillers  hum,  we'd  dress  them  up  in 

shams." 

Then  Venice  we  inspected  next;  'twas  grand  to  gaze  upon, 
But  the  streets  were  full  of  water — guess  they  had  a  freshet 

on. 
Then  the  hungry  souls  of  Hungary  we  peeked  at  from  the 

train, 
But  the  hungriest  guys  the  world  supplies  are  in  Pumpkin 

Corners,  Maine. 

Then  we  went  to  Nice,  but  'twasn't  nice;  then  off  to  Ger 
many, 

And  Kaiser  Wilhelm  greeted  us  and  axed  us  both  to  tea. 

"My  bologny's  swell,"  said  William.  "Well,"  said  I,  "it's 
quite  a  feast, 

But  for  cheese  that  walks  and  sausage  that  talks,  you  got 
to  go  down  East." 

"Our  Princes,  Counts — they  never  work,"  said  William, 
"understand 

You've  got  no  aristocracy  in  your  benighted  land." 

"The  man  who  shirks  and  never  works,"  said  I,  "gives  me 
a  pain ; 

We  calls  them  bums  from  where  I  comes,  down  Pumpkin 
Corners,  Maine." 

To  Paris  next,  and  there  we  dined  table  de  hot;  'twas  nice, 
The  soup  it  was  de  hot ;  the  table,  that  was  cold  as  ice. 
Meals  a  la  carte,  folks  think  they're  smart,  but  here  I'd 

like  to  state 

We  don't  eat  vittels  from  a  cart ;  we  eat  ours  from  a  plate. 
That  Ark  de  Triomphe,  that's  a  fraud — them  French  have 

got  a  gall — 
A  mass  of  stones,  that's  what  it  was ;  no  animals  at  all. 


38  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS 

They  talk  of  wine  and  make  a  shine  in  France  about  cham 
pagne. 

My  faith  I  tack  to  the  apple  jack  at  Pumpkin  Corners, 
Maine. 

We  skipped  across  to  England,  and  on  Shakespeare  called, 
but,  say, 

Bill  wasn't  home  to  see  us,  as  he'd  gone  out  for  the  day. 

Then  we  struck  the  Tower  of  London  next,  that  place  was 
simply  great; 

We'd  have  seen  'em  chop  a  king's  head  off,  but  got  there 
just  too  late. 

To  Westminster's  famed  Abbey  then ;  you'll  be  surprised  to 
larn 

It  cuts  no  ice  and  ain't  so  nice  as  old  Eph  Simpson's  barn. 

The  folks,  you  know,  are  too  dead  slow,  but  here  I'd  best 
explain — 

For  a  dead  slow  place  you  got  to  chase  to  Pumpkin  Cor 
ners,  Maine. 

That  Forum,  too;  at  that  we  drew  the  line  right  there  in 

Rome. 

"They  stand  for  rum"  said  Mandy;  "come,  we're  prohi 
bition  home." 
That  leaning  tower  of  Pisa — scour  the  earth — there's  not 

its  mate. 
If  we'd  that  leaning  tower  down  East,  we'd  make  it  stand 

up  straight. 

Venus  de  Medici ;  well,  she's  a  statue  I  suppose. 
I  do  declare  she  stood  right  there  without  a  stitch  of 

clothes. 
My  coat  I  draped  about  her  shape,  and  up  and  told  her 

plain, 
"We'd  give  you  ten  days  in  the  'pen'  in  Pumpkin  Corners, 

Maine !" 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  39 

Well,  here  I  am,  gay  as  a  clam,  back  in  the  Pine  Tree  State. 
I've  crossed  the  tide  and  now  decide  that  Europe's  second 

rate. 

To  travel  through  a  week  or  two,  I  guess  it  has  no  peer, 
But  to  make  a  pile — well,  I  should  smile — you  want  to  stay 

right  here. 
Outclassed,  outstripped,  we've  got  'em  whipped,  till  they 

can't  draw  a  breath. 
No  need  to  blow ;  we  head  the  show ;  we've  got  'em  skinned 

to  death. 
Them  Monarchs  they  don't  go  to-day — I  hope  I  make  this 

plain. 
It's  pork  and  beans,  not  Kings  and  Queens,  in  Pumpkin 

Corners,  Maine. 


THE  GLOEIOUS  FOURTH,  AND  HOW  WE  GOT  IT. 

A  Dramatic  Sketch. 

Characters — King  George,  Washington,  The  American 
Boy,  the  Goddess  of  Liberty. 

(Washington  and  King  George  enter  arm  in  arm  from, 
center.) 

WASHINGTON. 

OST  noble  liege  and  mighty  King, 
The  colonies  to  you  now  cling 
With  fond  allegiance,  and  we  pray 
To  live  beneath  your  royal  sway. 

No  better  monarch,  Sire,  than  you 

E'er  reigned  o'er  people  tried  and  true. 

We're  ever  loyal,  I  give  my  word, 

To  you,  illustrious  George  the  Third, 


40  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

KING  GEORGE. 

Thanks,  thanks,  most  noble  Washington. 
I'm  glad  the  people's  hearts  I've  won — 
I'm  glad  contentment  now  doth  reign 
From  Florida  to  pine-clad  Maine; 
I'm  glad  the  people  are  not  bent 
On  change  and  want  new  government. 

WASHINGTON. 

New  government,  oh,  no,  great  Sire ! 

No  government  do  we  require 

But  yours,  and  we  allegiance  give 

And  crave  'neath  Britain's  flag  to  live 

In  happiness  for  ever  more, 

With  you,  great  King,  to  lord  it  o'er 

Old  England  and  New  England,  too. 

KING  GEORGE    (sadly). 

Thanks,  thanks,  but,  ah,  'twill  never  do. 

WASHINGTON. 

What  ails  my  liege,  your  cheeks  turn  pale. 
Your  words  in  deep  emotion  fail; 
Some  burden's  on  your  noble  heart ! 

KING  GEORGE. 

The  colonies  and  I — must  part! 

WASHINGTON  (deeply  agitated). 

Must  part !    Oh,  King,  what  do  you  mean  ? 
We,  who  are  happy  and  serene, 
While  we  have  you,  our  King,  to  love 
^And  Britain's  flag  to  wave  above; 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  41 

Why  must  we  part  ?    I  lose  my  breath ; 
Great  King,  you've  scared  me  half  to  death. 
Speak !  speak !  my  liege,  that  I  may  glean 
Some  ray  of  hope.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

KING  GEOKGE. 

Ah,  Washington,  my  noble  friend, 
'Tis  sad  to  think  my  reign  must  end 
Upon  this  continent,  but  so 
The  fates  have  willed,  and  I  must  go ! 

WASHINGTON. 

You  break  my  heart,  see  how  I  grieve? 
What  secret  have  you  up  your  sleeve? 
Some  awful  weight  preys  on  your  mind. 
Explain,  oh,  Sire !  don't  be  unkind ! 
Tell  me,  great  King,  what  does  this  mean  ? 
We  Avant  no  other  King  or  Queen 
But  you  and  she,  your  royal  spouse. 

KING  GEORGE. 

To  swift  revolt  you  must  arouse 
The  colonies  at  once. 

WASHINGTON. 

And  why 

Must  we  revolt,  who're  loyal,  and  die? 
Why  must  grim  bloodshed's  gory  stain 
Besmirch  fair  valley,  hill  and  plain  ? 
WTiy  must  we  fight? 

(The  American  boy  rushes  on  center.    He  is  a  typical 
twentieth-century  boy,  full  of  life,  dash  and  vigor.) 


42  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

AMERICAN  BOY. 

I'll  tell  you  why : — 

If  you  don't  we'll  have  no  Fourth  of  July. 
I  am  the  great  American  boy, 
That  sprite  of  palpitating  joy; 
And  I  demand — mind,  no  excuse — 
One  day  a  year  to  turn  things  loose ; 
One  day  to  let  the  fireworks  off ; 
One  day  to  make  the  old  cat  cough, 
And  watch  her  o'er  the  fence  top  sail 
With  strings  of  crackers  at  her  tail ; 
I  want  a  day  to  shriek  and  shout 
And  blow  myself  clean  inside  out; 
I  want  a  day  to  work  off  steam 
And  hear  the  American  eagle  scream ; 
A  day  to  let  old  Europe  know 
That  our  band  wagon  heads  the  show ; 
A  day  of  grand  hilarious  mirth, 
When  Uncle  Sam  owns  all  the  earth; 
A  day  when  Europe  looks  amazed 
And  all  creation  sits  back  dazed; 
A  day  when  small  boys  rule  the  world 
And  brave  Old  Glory  swings  unfurled — 
Defiance  breathing  to  the  spheres, 
And  I,  bereft  of  nose  and  ears, 
Sing  Yankee  Doodle,  Doodle  Doo ! 
Now  then,  you  fellows — biff ! — set  to ! 
Get  up  and  fight — don't  waste  my  time 
With  fire  crackers,  twelve  a  dime, 
And  Roman  candles,  six  for  ten; 
I'm  out  for  sport ;  now  fight  like  men ; 
Go  pound  each  other  till  you're  sore, 
Or  stand  disgraced  for  evermore. 


UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  43 

WASHINGTON. 

Where  are  you  from,  sweet  youth  so  coy  ? 
}•'•' 

AMEEICAN  BOY. 

I  am  the  twentieth-century  boy, 

And  down  the  years  I've  come,  poste  haste, 

To  tell  you  both  you'll  be  disgraced 

Forever  in  our  boyish  eyes 

If  you  don't  fight;  so,  if  you're  wise, 

Great  Washington,  King  George  you'll  take 

And  mince-meat  of  that  monarch  make. 

And  if  you  don't,  take  this  from  me : 

There  will  be  no  Washington,  D.  C. ; 

No  statues  soaring  to  your  name ; 

No  songs  triumphant  to  proclaim 

You   father  of  your  country  grand, 

The  idol  of  your  native,  land ; 

No  pictures  hanging  everywhere 

Of  you  crossing  o'er  the  Delaware, 

Upstanding  thus,  hand  stuck  in  coat, 

With  patriotic  boys  to  gloat 

Upon  your  grand,  heroic  manner, 

While  small  lips  hum  "Star  Spangled  -Banner  I" 

These  awful  things  will  happen  if 

You  don't  give  old  King  George  a  biff. 

I'll  have  no  chance  to  lose  an  eye 

And  walk  around  three  fingers  shy, 

And  Chinese  Union  Firework  Packers 

Will  strike  if  they  can't  sell  their  crackers. 

Come,  boys;  come,  boys,  from  everywhere. 

(Boys  rush  on,  and  encircle  the  stage.) 


44  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Oh,  join  me  in  this  fervent  prayer 
To  this,  our  hero  Washington, 
To  give  us  just  one  day  of  fun ! 
One  day  of  wild,  hilarious  mirth, 
The  greatest  day  for  boys  on  earth. 
Great  Washington,  quick,  make  reply, 
Do  we  get  our  Fourth  of  July  ? 

(Washington,  in  deep  distress,  gazes  at  the  floor,  sighs 
deeply,  as  King  George  takes  his  arm.) 


KING  GEORGE. 

You  see,  my  friend,  what  they  require.   ^ 

WASHINGTON. 

Oh,  yes,  I  see  it,  noble  Sire. 

But,  oh,  it  grieves  my  inmost  soul 

To  think  that  martial  drums  must  roll, 

And  midst  the  cannon's  deadly  roars 

You're  headlong  pitched  from  off  these  shores, 

And  just  because  these  horrid  boys 

Want  some  excuse  to  make  a  noise. 

KING  GEORGE. 

I  know,  old  friend,  it  does  seem  tough. 

AMERICAN  BOY. 

It's  time  to  fight;  you've  talked  enough. 

WASHINGTON. 

I  will  not  fight. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  45 

AMERICAN  BOY. 

Then  stand  disgraced. 
Your  name  from  school  books  be  erased. 
New  York  a  Washington  Arch  won't  boast, 
No  Sousa's  Band  play  "Washington  Post," 
And  that  story  of  the  hatchet,  see, 
Where  you  cut  down  the  cherry-tree, 
We  won't  believe  you  told  your  pa. 
We'll  swear  you  told  a  fib.    Ha !  Ha ! 

(Boys  all  laugh  derisively.) 

WASHINGTON  (indignantly). 
You'll  tell  the  world  I  told  a  lie? 

AMERICAN  BOYS. 

Yes !  unless  we  get  the  "Fourth"  of  July. 

WASHINGTON. 

I  will  not  be  intimidated. 

KING  GEORGE. 

Now,  boys,  you've  got  him  animated ; 

Leave  him  to  me,  I'll  make  him  fight. 

I've  got  a  scheme,  just  watch  him  bite, 

He'll  get  so  mad,  he'll  fairly  choke, 

And  then  off  goes  my  kingly  yoke. 

I'll  put  a  tax  on  Lipton's  tea  (All  groan.) 

All  Yankees  now  my  slaves  shall  be. 

I'll  grant  you  not  the  least  concession, 

But  grind  you  down  with  fierce  oppression. 


46  UNCLE  CHARLJE'S  POEMS. 

Boston  shall  have  no  pork  and  beans, 

No  literary  bell-boys  or  auto  machines.     (Groans.) 

Tammany  Hall  shall  be  demolished, 

Cranberry  sauce  at  once  abolished 

And  turkey,  too,  as  I'm  a  sinner, 

Shall  never  grace  Thanksgiving  dinner.     (Groans.) 

Pumpkin  pie,  and,  I  repeat  it, 

No  one  in  America  shall  eat  it. 

Boys  shan't  whistle,  girls  shan't  hum, 

No  baby's  allowed  to  chew  its  thumb.     (Groans.) 

And  tho'  the  nation's  blood  may  boil, 

I'll  smash  the  trusts  and  Standard  Oil. 

No  American  girl  shall  wed  a  lord ; 

All  tramps  must  wash  and  pay  their  board. 

(Loud  cries  of  "Shame!"  from  the  boys.) 

I'll  abolish,  though  my  great  throne  quakes, 
Popcorn,  candy  and  buckwheat  cakes. 
And,  to  cap  it  all,  you  wretched  creatures, 
I'll  abolish  Jersey's  fierce  mos'keeters. 

WASHINGTON  (fighting  mad). 
You  shan't! 

KING  GEORGE. 

I  shan't  ?    I  say  I  will ! 

WASHINGTON. 

Then  be  prepared  for  Bunker  Hill. 
Pumpkin  pie,  that  you  can  stop. 
Pork  and  beans  from  menus  drop. 
Buckwheat  cakes  and  biscuits,  they 
Can  be  abolished  right  away. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  47 

Turkeys,  cranb'ries,  you  can  banish, 
Thumbs  from  babies'  mouths  can  vanish, 
But  I'll  spoil  all  your  kingly  features 
If  you  monkey  with  New  Jersey's  'skeeters. 
Those  noble  birds  of  freedom,  they, 
Unchained  upon  bald  heads  must  play, 
For,  if  you  stopped  their  funny  capers, 
There'd  be  no  jokes  in  Sunday  papers. 
They're  our  greatest,  grandest  institution, 
The  bulwark  of  our  constitution. 
To  banish  beans,  great  King,  's  all  right, 
But  touch  the  'skeeters  and  I  fight. 

(Boys  cheer  lustily  as  Washington  takes  off  his  coat  for 
action.) 

KING  GEORGE. 

Thank  Heaven,  I've  made  him  mad  at  last ! 

WASHINGTON. 

Go,  nail  "Old  Glory"  to  the  maat 
And  know  ye  all  that  now  I  sever 
Old  England  from  the  "new"  forever. 

KING  GEORGE  (in  fighting  attire). 
Quit  parleying  and  come  to  blows. 

(Boys  cheer  as  Washington  taps  King  George  on  the 
nose. ) 

WASHINGTON. 

There's  one  jiu  jitsu  on  the  nose ! 

KING  GEORGB. 

My  cause  is  lost,  I'm  licked,  I'm  done ! 


48  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

WASHINGTON. 

America's  free;  hurrah,  I've  won! 
(Goddess  of  Liberty,  from  Liberty  Island,  enters  center.) 

GODDESS  OF  LIBERTY. 

Immortal  George,  forever  glorious, 
I  crown  you  in  your  hour  victorious ; 
'Twas  not  for  liberty  you  fought, 
And  splendid  deeds  of  valor  wrought; 
But  for  a  nobler  purpose  you 
Have  fought  and  bled — 

BOYS 
Hurrah !   Hurroo ! 

GODDESS  OF  LIBERTY. 

You  knew  that  boyhood  one  day  needed 
For  joyous  mirth ;  their  cry  you  heeded ! 
You've  been  a  boy  and  took  compassion 
On  them  and  brought  the  "Fourth"  in  fashion. 

KING  GEORGE. 

In  my  steamer  trunk  I'll  put  my  crown, 

And  hustle  back  to  London  town ; 

Farewell  to  all,  so  glad  you're  'appy, 

I'm  going  'ome  to  be  a  chappie; 

I'll  send  a  wireless  from  Southampton, 

And  tell  the  Times  how  I've  been  tramped  on. 

WASHINGTON. 

(Shakes  King  George's  hand.) 
Ta !  Ta !  George;  so  sorry  to  lose  you. 


TINGLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  49 

BOYS. 

We  wanted  the  "Fourth." 

WASHINGTON-KING  GEOEGE. 

We  couldn't  refuse  you. 

WASHINGTON. 

Proclaim  this  fact  from  tower  and  steeple, 
I  only  fought  to  please  young  people ; 
King  George's  head,  I  had  to  crack  it 
Just  so  the  "kids"  could  raise  a  racket ; 
And  incidentally,  know  all  creatures, 
I  fought  to  save  the  Jersey  'skeeters ; 
So,  know  ye  all,  South,  East,  West,  North, 
Just  how  you  got  the  glorious  "Fourth." 
You've  got  these  facts  all  in  your  noodles, 

ALL. 
We  have ! 

GODDESS  OF  LIBERTY. 

Then  let's  sing  "Yankee  Doodle,  Doodles." 

(All  sing  "Yankee  Doodle"  as  Liberty  takes  Washing 
ton's  hand.  King  George,  with  trunk,  exits  left.  Cheers 
and  curtain.) 


50  UNCLE  CHARLES'S  POEMS. 


THE    CAT   AND   THE    CANARY 

HE  Canary  bird  sat  in  his  cage  and  sang, 
When  a  Thomas  Cat  happened  along. 
"Good-morning,  my  dear,"  said  the  gentleman 

cat, 

"A  remarkably  beautiful  song ! 
Your  shakes  and  your  trills  my  little  heart  fills 

With  a  very  exuberant  jay." 
"You  flatter  yours  truly,"  said  birdy,  unduly; 
"You  are  awfully  kind,  dear  boy !" 

Tweet,  tweet,  tra-la-la-la ! 

Awfully  kind,  dear  Tommy,  you  are. 
Me-ow,  me-ow ;  caterawaul,  caterawaul ; 

You're  a  glorious  singer,  that's  all,  that's  all. 

"I'm  a  bit  of  a  singer,  myself,"  said  the  cat, 

At  least,  my  Maria  thinks  so. 
In  a  moonlight  sonata,  or  backyard  cantata, 

Oh,  I  make  a  respectable  show. 
But  it  puzzles  me  quite,  when  rehearsing  at  night, 

That  out  of  each  window  should  pop 
Head  after  head,  and  my  cheeks  they  blush  red 

At  the  way  I'm  requested  to  stop." 

Meow,  meow ;  cater-mer-row ! 

To  the  moon,  from  the  roof,  politely  I  bow,  . 
But  no  one,  alas,  ever  seems  to  admire 

The  love-songs  I  sing  to  my  darling  Maria. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  51 

"Now,  suppose  I  should  give  you  a  lesson  or  two;" 

The  Canary  bird  smilingly  said. 
"I'll  touch  up  your  tones,  and  I'll  calm  down  your  groans, 

And  I'll  fix  up  the  chords  in  your  head. 
Then  a  world  that  derisively  shouted  you  down, 

Whenever  you  sang  on  the  fence, 
Would  cry  out  for  more,  and  demand  an  encore. 

And  they'd  say  it  was  simply  immense." 

"Tra-la-la-la,  tra-la-la-lee !" 

Said  the  Canary,  "Pray,  imitate  me: 
Me-yow,  me-yow,  likewise  meyew; 

Oh,  we'll  soon  make  an  opera  singer  of  you !" 

With  his  lesson  well  learned,  off  that  night  Thomas  went, 

And  he  warbled  as  never  before. 
His  trills  and  his  shakes,  and  his  vocal  earthquakes, 

With  great  patience  the  neighborhood  bore, 
Till,  wearied  at  last,  there  was  wafted  a  blast 

That  hurtled  'round  poor  Tommy's  head. 
On  buckshot  bouquets,  oh,  he  liked  not  to  gaze, 

So  off,  like  greased  lightning,  he  fled. 

Bang,  bang,  bang !  went  a  gun, 

Off  went  Tom's  ear,  of  tail  now  he'd  none. 
"Oh,  lor5 !   Oh,  my !"  Tom  shrieked,  with  a  hiss. 

"That  dad-binged  Canary,  I'll  fix  him  for  this!" 

In  the  morn  Tom  appeared  in  a  terrible  plight, 

Underneath  the  Canary  bird's  cage. 
The  Canary  bird  exploded,  and  said :   "You're  a  sight !" 

While  poor  Thomas  just  trembled  with  rage. 
The  little  Canary  he  then  gobbled  up, 

And  said :   "This  will  teach  you,  you  brat, 
It's  very  absurd,  for  a  vain  little  bird, 

To  play  pranks  on  an  old  Thomas  cat !" 


52  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

"Tra-la-la-la,  tra-la-la-lee !" 

Sang  Tom,  as  he  .struck  a,  grand  high  C. 
"No  wonder  my  voice  is  birdlike  and  clear, 

That's  the  hundredth  Canary  I've  swallowed  this  vear !" 


SO   DID   I. 

HAT  long,  lank  dude  as  sparks  our  Sue  was  to  the 

house  last  night, 
An'  talk  of  having  fun,  well,  say,  I  thought  I'd 

die  outright. 

Laugh,  well,  I'm  a-laughing  still,  I  guess  I'll  never  quit ; 
I've  only  got  to  think,  an'  then  I  durned  nigh  have  a  fit. 
He  came  to  supper,  an'  we  had,  o'  course,  a  dandy  spread. 
Sue  trotted  out  her  choc'late  cake,  an'  Mom  her  fancy 

bread', 
An'  that  long  dude  he  stuffed  hisself  with  cake,  preserves 

an'  pie, 
An'  then  drank  sixteen  cups  o'  tea,  an' — so  did  I. 

Jim  Snaggs  he  eat,  an'  eat,  an'  eat ;  my,  how  that  dude  did 

stuff, 
Till  every  plate  was  cleared,  then  Jim  he  guessed  he'd  had 

enough. 
Most  folks  in  love  don't  eat  at  all,  but  Jim  ain't  one  of 

such, 
For  he  allowed  love  always  made  him  eat  just  twice  as 

much. 
Up  from  his  chair  Jim  staggered,  you  could  almost  see  him 

swell. 
He'd  eat  so  much,  how  he  got  up  thaf  s  more  than  I  can 

tell. 

I  saw  him  beckon  Sue,  an'  she  just  answered  with  her  eye, 
Then  to  the  parlor  off  they  sneaked,  an' — so  did  I. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  53 

They  made  for  that  old  settee  in  the  corner  by  the  door, 
An'  I  crawled  in  an'  hid  behind,  where  oft  I  hid  before. 
An'  then  I  heard  him  whisper :  "Sue,  just  let  me  give  you 

one !" 
An'  Sue,  she  said :   "Jim,  if  you  do,  I'll  get  right  up  an' 

run." 
An'  then  she  giggled  f  oolish-like ;  you  know  how  young 

folks  spark 

A-fore  the  parlor  lamp  is  lit,  an'  things  is  kind  'er  dark. 
Well,  Jim  he  kissed  her  good  an'  hard,  an'  Sue,  she  said: 

"Oh,  fie," 
Then  jabbed  her  fist  in  Jim  Snaggs'  neck,  an' — so  did  I. 

I  bobbed  down  quick,  Jim  didn't  see,  for  love,  you  know,  is 

blind ; 
An'  then  with  cord  I  started  in  Jim's  swell  coat-tails  to 

bind. 

He'd  on  his  new  Prince  Albert,  for  Jim  was  quite  a  card, 
An',  'fore  you  knew  a  thing,  I'd  got  him  tied  up  good  an' 

hard, 
An'  'neath  the  settee  then  I  crawled,  an'  laid  flat  on  the 

floor, 
With  Sue's  steel  hatpin  in  my  hand,  six  inches  long,  or 

more. 

Then,  just  as  Jim  was  kissing  Sue,  I  jabbed  it  in  his  thigh; 
He  yelled  an'  rolled  in  fourteen  fits,  an' — so  did  I. 

You  should  have  seen  the  circus,  when  that  pin  got  busy — 

you 
Must  know  Jim  hit  the  ceiling,  an'  the  settee  went  there, 

too, 
An'  'round  the  room  he  dragged  it,  like  a  mule  hitched  to 

a  truck, 
Till  both  his  coat-tails  they  tore  off,  an'  Jim  just  cussed 

his  luck 


54:  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

An'  stamped  an'  yelled  till  all  the  folks  rushed  headlong 

through  the  door 

An'  stumbled  over  Sue,  who  lay  unconscious  on  the  floor. 
Pop  dashed  right  off  for  water;  say,  you  should  have  seen 

him  fly; 
He  soused  ten  buckets  in  Sue's  face,  an' — so  did  I. 

At  last  they  got  Sue  on  a  chair,  poor  gal,  she  couldn't  stand, 
While  Jim  stood  there  an'  rubbed  hisself,  a  coat-tail  in  each 

hand. 

An'  Sue  no  sooner  saw  him  than  she  started  in  to  grin, 
Then  flopped  down  on  the  floor,  an'  chucked  another  fit 

again. 

We  soused  her  "to"  with  water,  then  an  argument  arose 
Just  as  to  what  old  animal  had  bit  Jim  through  his  clothes. 
Sue  guessed  a  snake,  Ma  said  she  thought  'twas  lightning 

from  the  sky, 
But,  last,  they  blamed  it  on  the  cat,  an' — so  did  I. 


THE    TEAGEDY    OF    AN    APPLE. 

'M  returning  Willie's  photograph,  I'm  sending  hack 

his  ring, 
And  across  the  picture's  written,  "You're  a  base, 

deceitful  thing," 
Oh !    I  never  would  have  thought  it,  in  the  light  of  what 

has  been, 
He'd  have  acted  quite  so  selfish,  so  contemptible  and  mean, 


UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  55 

But,  alas !  it  ever  happens  thus,  for  nearly  every  boy 
Thinks  a  girl  is  little  better  than  a  plaything  or  a  toy ; 
But  my  feelings  can't  be  trampled  on,  and  all  the  world 

shall  see 
That  everything  is  over,  now,  'twixt  Willie  Jones  and  me. 

My  courage  fails,  and  tears  they  come,  when  I  recall  the 

past 

With  all  its  tender  memories,  too  beautiful  to  last: 
How  we  shared  our  candy,  apples,  gum,  and  how  he  made 

a  rule 

To  wait  around  our  gate,  and  see  me  to  and  fro  to  school. 
And,  oh !  that  blissful  moment  when  he  handed  me  a  rose 
And  asked  if  he — (well,  never  mind)  and  how  he  bumped 

my  nose 
And  blushed  as  much  as  I  did — ah !  'tis  cruel  I've  lived  to 

see 
The  day  when  all  is  over  'twixt  Willie  Jones  and  me. 

It  was  all  about  an  apple — he  thought  I  wasn't  nigh, 
And  I  saw  him  go  behind  a  tree  to  eat  it  on  the  sly ; 
And  his  little  guilty  conscience  made  him  gobble  it  so  quick 
That  I  thought  it  would  have  choked  him,  or  have  made 

him  deathly  sick. 

I  saw  that  rosy  apple  as  he  bit  with  a  zest 
(It  was  one  of  those  big  juicy  ones — the  kind  I  like  the 

best), 
And  my  mouth,  oh,  how  it  watered  as  his  lips  together 

smack't ;' 
Then  I  dashed  behind  the  tree  and  caught  the  culprit  in 

the  act. 

At  first  he  tried  to  face  me  out,  but  'twasn't  any  use, 
For,  trickling  down  from  Willie's  mouth,  were  tell-tale 
streams  of  juice, 


56  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

And,  oh !  the  scent  of  apples  just  hung  about  his  clothes, 
And  drove  me  simply  frantic  as  it  played  about  my  nose. 
I  pressed  him  to  confess  his  crime,  he  only  fibbed  the  more, 
When,  sticking  from  his  pocket,  I  observed  an  apple  core; 
And  I  snatched  this  proof  of  infamy  forth  from  its  hiding- 
place, 
And,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  then  I  shook  it  in  his  face. 

'Twas  only  pride  that  gave  me  strength,  as  on  the  ground  I 

threw 

The  remnants  of  that  apple — and  I  guess  he  never  knew 
Just  what  that  action  cost  me,  for  it  wasn't  finished  quite, 
And  there  was  yet  enough  upon  it  for  just  one  lovely  bite. 
But  I  scorned  it,  and  I  threw  it,  with  a  haughty  air,  aside, 
And,  just  as  I  was  doing  it,  upon  his  coat  I  spied 
Two  long  red  hairs  of  Susan  Payne's,  confirming  my  worst 

fears, 
And,  with  this  proof  of  perfidy,  I  'Tjursted"  into  tears. 

There's  a  yawning  gulf  existing  now,  'twixt  William  Jones 

and  me, 

And  when  he's  near,  the  temperature  descends  most  rapidly, 
And  an  icy,  frigid  atmosphere  o'er  both  a  silence  throws, 
(Accentuated  somewhat  by  my  elevated  nose). 
I  forgive  him  for  his  fickleness,  I've  dried  the  eyes  once  wet, 
But  there  are  things  Ave  may  forgive,  but  never  can  forget ; 
And  though  Willie,  on  his  bended  knee,  for  pardon  he 

should  crave, 
Still  the  memories  of  that  apple  I  shall  carry  to  my  grave. 

I  forgive  him  for  his  conduct  with  that  freckled  Susan 

Payne; 
I  forgive  his  haughty  manner  and  his  icy,  cold  disdain ; 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  57, 

I  can  overlook  the  meanness  of  the  priggish  little  elf, 
(When  passing  cake  he  always  took  the  biggest  piece  him 
self)  ; 

I  forgive  the  cruel  injustice,  the  indifference  and  neglect, 
For,  with  the  way  he's  been  brought  up,  what  else  can  you 

expect  ? 

But  I  never  will  forgive  him,  for  he  broke  my  heart  out 
right 
When  he  ate  that  whole  big  apple  without  giving  me  a  bite. 


THE    PREDICAMENTS    OF   A   POET. 

IS  lady's  locks  of  Titian  red  inflamed  the  poet's  soui, 
And  soon  with  frenzy  fine,  and  wrapt,  his  eye 


began  to  roll. 
He  hied  him  home  and  seized  his  lyre,  and  gaily 

twanged  and  smote, 

And  then  a  matchless  sonnet  to  those  ruddy  locks  he  wrote. 
Then,  with  his  poesy,  to  his  love  he  straightway  hurried 

back. 
But,  oh !  ye  Gods !  that  Titian  hair  was  now  a  raven  black. 

Homeward  in  haste  the  poet  hied,  there  was  no  time  to 

lose; 
And  soared  Parnassan  heights  afresh,  and  wooed  anew  his 

muse. 
And,  forthwith,  then  he  grabbed  his  lyre  and  smote  it  many 

a  smack; 
Then  wrote  his  lays  in  frenzied  praise  of  tresses  raven 

black. 


58  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Then,  with  his  sonnet,  sought  his  love;  alas,  poor  hapless 

clown ! 
The  fashions  they  had  changed,  and  now  his  lady's  locks 

were  brown. 

The  poet  tarried  not,  nor  wept,  but  hastened  home  full 

swift, 
And  in  the  praise  of  nut-brown  hair  his  voice  right  soon 

did  lift, 

And,  on  the  parchment,  glowing  words  of  eloquence  express 
The  poet's  adoration  of  each  silken,  glossy  tress. 
Then  rushed  unto  his  lady-love,  in  horror  to  behold 
That  nut-brown  hair  that  once  was  there  was  now  peroxide 

gold. 

MORAL. 

While  fashion  sways  the  sex  called  fair, 

It  would  be  wise,  mayhap, 
In  Writing  sonnets  to  their  hair, 

To  keep  all  hues  on  tap. 


MAYBE!    I  GUESS!    PERHAPS! 

HEY'VE  got  a  social  at  our  church,  there's  going 

to  be  a  time, 
An',  oh,  such  things  they  promise  if  you'll  only 

bring  a  dime. 

You  can  give  the  wheel  of  fortune  some  gentle  little  taps, 
An'  every  boy's  to  get  a  prize — maybe !  I  guess !  perhaps ! 

Pa's  awful  short  of  cash  just  now,  he  went  to  Mr.  Jones, 
And  had  a  business  talk  with  him  concerning  sundry  loans. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  59 

Pa  told  him  if  he'd  wait  until  he'd  gathered  in  the  craps, 
He'd  pay  him  every  cent  he  owed — maybe !  I  guess !  per 
haps! 

We've  got  two  beaus  a-callin'  on  our  Liza  an'  on  Jane, 

The  way  they  spoon  an'  carry  on  would  drive  you  'most  in 
sane. 

My  old-maid  aunt  says,  'fore  she'd  set  aroun'  in  fellers' 
laps 

She'd  rather  die  a  thousand  times — maybe !  I  guess !  per 
haps! 

Pa  got  a  circular  in  his  mail,  an  advertisement,  which 
Told  how  a  man  without  work  might  soon  get  all-fired 

rich. 

Pa's  sent  the  man  a  dollar  to  explain  this  snap  of  snaps, 
An'  says  his  fortune's  good  as  made — maybe !  I  guess  !  per 
haps! 

I've  got  a  dandy  bird-gun  and  a  bulldog,  too,  I've  got, 
An'  Jones'  cat  we  fixed  last  night,  and  for  her  made  things 

hot. 
Between  that  dog,  an'  gun  an'  me,  we  tore  that  cat  in 

scraps, 
But  she  ain't  dead,  she's  eight  lives  left — maybe  !  I  guess ! 

perhaps ! 

The  chap  that's  courtin'  sister  Jane  is  thin  an'  dreadful 
old, 

But  Ma,  she  says  he's  awful  rich,  got  houses,  land  an'  gold. 

It  ain't  his  wealth  Jane's  after,  an'  this  the  climax  caps, 

She's  going  to  marry  him  for  love — maybe !  I  guess !  per 
haps. 

Ma  says,  some  day,  a  long  ways  off,  if  boys  don't  steal  an' 
cry, 

That  lots  of  lovely  things  there  is,  awaits  them  by-aa'-bye. 


60  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

They'll  all  be  angels  if  they're  good,  no  more  cross  words 
nor  slaps, 

And  I'm  to  have  a  harj)  an'  wings — maybe !  I  guess !  per 
haps! 


SANDY    CLAWS. 

ELL,  Christmas,  good  old  Christmas,  it  will  soon 

be  here  ag'en, 
And  dear  old  Sandy  Claws  once  more  will 

creep  out  from  his  den, 
And,  I  think,  for  him  to  stay  away  all  through  the  year  is 

wrong, 
When  he  could  call  'most  every  day,  and  leave  toys  right 

along. 
I've  often  wondered  where  he  lived,  and  just  where  Sandy 

stops, 
And,  from  his  whiskers,  I  should  judge  it's  near  no  barber*- 

shops ; 
And,  they  say,  he  works  both  night  and  day,  just  like  a 

perfect  slave, 

A-making  toys  for  girls  and  boys,  and  don't  have  time  to 
shave. 

Some  folks  say  Sandy  don't  exist,  and  that  it's  all  a  sell ; 

I  must  confess  there  have  been  times  I've  had  my  doubts 
as  well, 

For  when,  last  Christmas,  we  received  our  old  friend,  Mis 
ter  Claws, 

Tho'  face  and  whiskers  they  were  his,  his  voice  and  pants 
were  Paw's ! 

He  may  have  had  an  accident,  and  borrowed  pants  from  Pa, 

But  Dad  he's  only  got  one  pair,  and  they  was  made  by  Ma, 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  61 

And  if  Sandy  ever  got  them  on,  and  went  from  door  to 

door, 
Them  home-made  pants  that  mother  made  would  get  him 

locked  up,  sure. 

It  ain't  alone  them  pants  don't  fit,  but  Ma  can't  measure 

straight, 
And,  while  one  leg  is  three  foot  six,  the  t'other's  two  foot 

eight, 
And,  as  goods  just  now  are  scarce  and  dear,  the  pants  ain't 

all  one  piece; 
And  they're  patched  just  like  a  crazy-quilt,  and  two  foot 

thick  in  grease. 
And  there's  another  funny  thing,  Bill  Smith,  Tom  Jones, 

and  Brown, 

And  all  the  other  boys  and  girls  that  live  for  miles  aroun', 
Say,  when  Sandy  came  to  visit  them — and  that  just  made 

me  sore, 
My  Pop's  pants  had  disappeared — and  'twas  their  Pop's 

pants  he  wore. 

So  that's  just  got  me  guessing,  to  know  what  Sandy  did, 

With  Pop's  old  pants  when  he  left  us,  and  where  he's  got 
'em  hid, 

For  there  ain't  no  place  to  change  'em,  'cept  in  the  open 
air, 

And,  if  Sandy  Claws  got  doing  that,  you  know  how  folks 
would  stare. 

And  yet  in  every  house  he  went,  to  make  young  hearts  re 
joice; 

He  had  on  different  pantyloons,  likewise  a  different  voice, 

And  just  what  puzzles  me  is  this,  and  to  know  I'd  give  a 
dime, 

How  he  changed  his  pants  at  every  house,  a'fid  still  got 
'round  on  time. 


@2  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

It  ain't  as  if  lie  only  had  a  single  call  to  make, 

But,  as  soon  as  Christmas  morn  arrives,  and  everyone's 

awake, 
In  just  about  three  hours,  or  less,  of  wild  and  boisterous 

mirth, 

Old  Sandy  Claws  has  made  a  call  at  every  house  on  earth. 
You  talk  about  chain  lightning,  and  say  how  mighty  swift 

'twill  go, 
But,  compared  to  Sandy's  getting  'round,  that  old  chain 

lightning's  slow. 
And  how  could  he  hand  out  his  toys,  in  India,  Spain  and 

France, 
If  he  fooled  'round  in  snowdrifts  while  changing  of  his 

pants? 

And  if  he  was  to  change  'em,  as  on  his  rounds  he  rolled, 
It  seems  to  me  the  dear  old  man  would  catch  his  death  of 

cold; 

And  then,  if  Sandy  was  to  die,  farewell  to  Christmas  joys, 
For  what,  in  thunder,  would  we  do  for  candy,  sleds  and 


One  pair  of  pants  on  t'other,  he  could  put,  so  people  state, 
But  with  tons  of  pants  on  either  leg,  'twould  surely  make 

him  late; 
And,  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,  if  he  wore  many  pants  like 

Pa's 
He  wouldn't  get  three  hundred  feet,  unless  he  took  the 

cars. 

Well,  pants  or  no  pants  —  I  don't  care,  so  long  as  Sandy 

comes 
All  loaded  down  with  whiskers,  and  sleds,  and  toys,  and 

drums; 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  (53 

And,  so  long  as  he  is  right  on  time,  and  don't  forget  to 

stop, 

I  don't  care  if  Pop  is  Sandy  Claws,  or  Sandy  Claws  is  Pop  ! 
And  whether  he  comes  through  the  door,  or  down  the  chim- 

bley  flue, 
Don't   cut   the  leastest  figure,   just  so  long  as   he   gets 

through ; 
And  his  voice,  and  pants,  and  whiskers  don't  concern  the 

girls  and  boys 
So  long  as  Sandy's  'round  on  time,  and  hustles  out  the 

toys. 


"BEST   TO    KNOW   NOTHIN'   AT   ALL." 

NOWLEDGE  is  good  for  the  hoys  and  the  girls, 

At  least  so  the  teacher  says ; 
An'  ignorance,  sure,  is  a  blighting  thing, 

An'  hurts  us  in  various  ways. 
An'  teachers  is  right,  an'  knowledge  is  fine — 

Both  for  boys,  an'  girls,  an'  men, 
But  a  goodly-sized  stock  of  ignorance 

Comes  handy,  too,  now  an'  then. 
It's  nice  to  be  smart,  an'  answer  up  quick, 

When  the  minister  comes  to  tea, 
An'  get  the  j'ography  questions  all  right, 

An'  bound  the  Carribean  Sea. 
But  if  they  should  ask  who  stoned  the  black  cat, 

Or  stole  them  apples  last  Fall, 
Then  Knowledge,  you'll  find,  is  a  snare  an'  a  fraud, 
An'  it's  best  to  know  nothin'  at  all. 


(54  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

If  Pop  says :  "Boy,  I  will  give  you  a  dime 

If,  without  any  pencil  or  slate, 
You  can  multiply  eighty  by  sixty-six 

An'  then  subtract  twenty-eight." 
Then  you  want  to  look  up  to  the  ceiling  hard, 

An'  see  if  the  answer's  there, 
While  j'our  brains  become  an  adding  machine, 

An'  dimes  float  around  in  the  air. 
It's  a  mighty  fine  thing  if  you're  good  on  sums ; 

In  fact,  it's  simply  immense 
To  be  able  to  answer  up  quick  and  correct, 

An'  collar  that  ol'  ten  cents. 
But  if  Pop  inquires  how  the  window  got  broke 

When  you  were  out  playing  ball, 
Well,  Knowledge,  you'll  find,  ain't  good  for  your  health, 

An'  it's  best  to  know  nothin'  at  all. 


If  your  Ma  should  tak,e  you  onto  her  lap, 

As  Mas  they  will  sometimes  do, 
An'  the  Sunday-school  lesson  gets  down  from  the  shelf, 

An'  the  questions  begin  to  run  through, 
Then  visions  of  apples  begin  to  appear 

An'  dazzle  a  poor  boy's  eyes, 
An'  you  wish  you  knew  more  than  Solomon  did, 

An'  were  fifty,  or  more,  times  wise. 
Oh !  it's  nice  to  know  all  'bout  Noa-n-th'  Ark, 

An'  get  all  the  Ten  Plagues  right, 
An'  tell  about  Samson  losing  his  hair, 

An'  them  Philistines  puttin'  to  flight. 
But  if  Ma  should  ask  who  stole  that  mince  pie 

She  left  on  the  tray  in  the  hall, 
Then  Knowledge,  you'll  find's  the  worst  thing  on  earth, 

An'  it's  best  to  know  nothin'  at  all. 


UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  65 

If  sister's  dude  beau  sits  down  on  a  tack, 

With  the  business  end  in  the  air, 
An*  cobbler's  wax,  it  gets  stuck  in  a  pile 

'Bound  the  edge  of  the  easy-chair, 
An'  the  neighbor's  puppy  scoots  down  the  street 

With  a  tin-can  tied  to  his  tail, 
An'  they  can't  draw  water  out  of  the  well, 

Because  there's  no  bucket  or  pail, 
An'  a  jar  of  preserves  is  nearly  gone, 

An'  another  is  empty  quite, 
An'  every  old  clock  in  the  house  strikes  wrong, 

An'  none  of  the  lamps  will  light — 
Should  Pop,  with  a  raw-hide,  then  upon  you 

For  exact  information  call : 
Well,  Knowledge  ain't  what  it's  cracked  up  to  be, 

An'  it's  best  to  know  nothin'  at  all. 


A  CAKEFUL  MA. 

ma,  she  is  a  careful  ma.    When  I  go  out  to 

play, 
She'll  say :  "Now  John,  dear,  have  a  care  just 

where  you  go  to-day; 
Now  don't  play  ball,  because  a  ball  is  dangerous,  and  you 
Might  get  a  fatal  blow,  and  then  whatever  should  I  do? 
And  don't  go  near  the  water,  for  you're  liable  to  drown, 
And  look  up  at  the  housetops,  as  a  cornice  might  blow 

down, 

For  the  wind  is  very  high,  John,  so  now,  my  dear,  ta !  ta ! 
And  mind  the  automobiles,  dear !"     Oh,  I've  such  a  care 
ful  ma ! 

My  ma,  she  is  a  careful  ma.    I've  scarcely  gone  a  yard 
Before  she's  shouting,   "Johnnie" — and  a-shouting  good 
and  hard. 


6(J  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

"I  guess  you'd  better  stay  at  home/'  she'll  say,  "for  John, 

my  pet, 

Jones'  dog  went  mad  last  week,  and  no  one's  caught  it  yet. 
There !  You've  stepped  right  in  that  puddle ;  come  in  and 

change  your  shoes, 

For  the  influenza's  raging,  and  I  read  in  last  night's  News 
That  boy  of  Smith's  that  got  wet  feet  has  took  pneumonia ; 
You'd  better  change  your  stockings,  too."  Oh,  I've  such  a 

careful  ma ! 

My  ma,  she  is  a  careful  ma.    She  cuts  up  all  my  meat, 
But  fish  she  never  lets  me  touch,  and,  whiter  than  a  sheet, 
She  tells  how,  years  and  years  ago,  a  boy  in  Delaware 
Got  two  fishbones  lodged  in  his  throat,  and  died  right  then 

and  there. 
And  as  for  knives  and  forks;  well,  they're  a  thing  that's 

quite  taboo; 

Ma  says  a  fork  is  dangerous,  and  a  little  boy  she  knew, 
His  knife  it  slipped  and  cut  his  lip,  'twas  in  Pennsylvania; 
So  I  use  a  spoon  for  pie  at  noon.    Oh,  I've  such  a  careful 

ma! 

My  ma,  she  is  a  careful  ma.    She  never  lets  me  run, 
For  fear  I'd  stub  my  toe  and  fall,  and  when  the  golden  sun 
Shines  down,  she  keeps  me  in  the  house,  for  fear  a.  stroke 
1         I'll  get; 
And  when  it  rains,  I'm  locked  indoors,  for  fear  I  might  get 

wet. 
She  never  lets  me  read,  for  ma  says  reading  hurts  your 

eyes. 
She  never  lets  me  laugh,  for  ma  don't  think  that  laughing'a 

wise, 

For  if  I  laughed  as  loud,  she  says,  as  Uncle  Jim  and  pa, 
I'd  take  a  fit,  and  die  in  it — Oh,  I've  such  a  careful  ma ! 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  67 


"OLD   HOSS   JIM." 

T  just  beats  ev'rything  to  fits,  the  way  a  feller  feels, 
When  first  he  claps  his  eyes  upon  them  autermoby- 

eels, 
An'  strange,  but  some  folks  like  the  things,  and 

think  they're  just  divine — 
But,  speaking  for  myself,  right  here,  I  don't  want  none  in 

mine. 

No  auto  car,  I  thank  you,  sir,  will  yank  this  chap  around, 
A-kitin'  long  the  road  like  sin,  a  foot  above  the  ground. 
An'  I'll  bet,  no  benzine  buggy  ever  built  for  mortal's  whim 
Can  hold  its  own  a  second  with,  or  touch,  our  old  hoss  Jim ! 

It  ain't  that  Jim's  so  beautiful,  it  ain't  that  Jim's  so  fast, 
For  the  speediest  days  of  Jim,  I  guess,  are  over  now  and 

past. 
But  when  I  look  back  thirty  years,  and  rack  my  brain 

awhile, 
And  think  of  old  Jim's  palmy  days,  them  'mobeels  make 

me  smile. 
Them  days,  when  Jim  was  sleek  and  fat,  and  had  a  fiery 

eye, 
When  I  grabbed  the  reins,  and  held  my  breath,  prepared  to 

do  or  die — 
And  with  ears  laid  low,  and  tail  stuck  out,  a  type  of  speed 

and  power — 
Jim  dashed  along  the  old  pike-road  at  fifty  yards  an  hour. 

I'd  like  to  see  the  pacer  that  could  pass  old  Jimmy  then, 
Ah !  many  a  one  had  tried  it,  but  Jim  he  knew  just  when 
The  t'other  hoss  was  coming,  then  Jimmy  he  would  stop, 
And  across  the  road  he'd  spread  himself,  and  in  the  middle 
flop— 


gg  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

And  the  hoss  that  tried  to  pass  him  then,  it  had  to  climb 

or  fly — 

Or  dig  a  tunnel  under  Jim,  or  there  warn't  no  getting  by. 
Then  off  to  sleep  old  Jim  would  go,  and  into  dreamland 

roam, 
While  I  hitched  a  rope  around  his  neck,  and  hauled  the 

victor  home. 

Another  thing  about  old  Jim,  if  he  didn't  go>  the  clip, 
All  that  a  feller  needed  was  to  just  haul  out  his  whip, 
An'  then  you'd  soak  it  to  him  for  about  an  hour  or  so — 
An',  to  show  Jim  bore  no  malice,  he  would  go  ten  times  as 

slow — 
Now,  with  them  ol'  automoby-eels,  if  they  don't  go  the 

pace, 
It's  just  a-wastin'  time  to  get  the  whip  down  from  its 

place, 
You  can  pound  and  cuss  a  hoss  until  the  atmosphere  turns 

green, 
But  'tain't  no  use  to  lick  a  durned  ol'  can  of  kerosene. 

An'  then  them  automoby-eels,  they  cost  a  sight  of  pelf, 

An'  they  need  a  heap  of  groomin',  too,  while  Jim — he 
grooms  himself. 

An'  they're  chock  full  of  bolts  and  things,  how  many  I 
forget, 

While  Jim,  I  will  say  that  for  him — he's  never  lotted  yet. 

An'  then  they've  got  rheumatic  tires,  and  pumpin'  air's  re 
quired  ; 

Yes,  ev'ry  blessed  wheel  needs  tires,  while  Jim  he's  never 
tired. 

An'  Jim  don't  need  no  hay,  nor  oats,  such  things  he  never 
ate, 

He  just  chews  up  a  fence-rail,  and  he  thinks  he's  doin' 
great. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  69 

So,  take  your  automoby-eels  and  throw  'em  all  aside, 

An'  your  ol'  balloons  an'  flyin'  ships    that  through  the 

heaven's  glide; 

Your  Empire  State  expresses,  your  whizzin'  trolley  cars. 
You  can  harness  up  the  comets  an'  the  meteoric  stars, 
You  can  grab  a  wirless  cablegram  an'  sit  upon  its  tail, 
You  can  catch  greased  lightnin'  as  it  flies,  or  follow  in  its 

trail, 
But,  with  all  your  wheels,  an'  'beels,  an'  things  that  o'er 

our  planet  skim, 
When  it  comes  to  rapid  transit,  why,  I  pins  my  faith  to 

Jim. 

\ 
A   MATTER    OF    MONEY. 

AUD  SMITH  is  quite  the  sweetest  girl,  I  think, 

I  ever  met. 
What  glorious  sparkling  eyes  has  Maud,  what 

hair  of  glistening  jet ! 
Brunettes  I've  always  much  preferred    to  any  type  of 

blonde, 
Of  blue-eyed  girls  with  creamy  cheeks  I  ne'er  was  extra 

fond. 

How  strange  that  Maud's  so  lovely,  for  Maudie's  sister  Sue 
I  think  is  quite  the  homeliest  girl  I've  ever  met,  don't  you? 
I've  laid  my  net  for  Maudie,  and,  by  the  way,  I'm  told, 
She  has  a  fortune,  all  her  own,  some  fifty  thousand  "cold." 

Well,  I've  clean  gone  back  on  Maudie,  for  I  can  plainly  see 
Brunettes  no  longer  have  the  charm  that  once  they  had  for 

me. 
Blue  eyes  and  golden  hair,  somehow,  they  always  have  the 

knack 
Of  making  girls  look  very  plain  whose  hair  is  merely  black. 


70  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Then  Sue's  so  interesting,  while  Maud  is  fax  from  that, 
And,  after  Sue,  Maud  always  seems  to  fall  a  trifle  flat. 
So  Sue's  the  girl  of  girls,  I  guess,  to  fill  the  bill  just  now. 
Oh!  by  the  wry,  it's  Sue,  not  Maud,  that  has  that  fifty 
thou'. 

I  find  those  Smith  girls,  after  all,  are  nothing  extra  grand : 

Susie's  feet  are  rather  large,  she's  not  a  pretty  hand ; 

She's  rather  shallow,  too,  I  find;  those  baby  faces  pall; 

Somehow,  I  don't  think,  after  this,  I'll  make  another  call. 

To  tell  the  truth,  they're  homely,  and,  then,  they're  not  my 
style. 

And  Sue  and  Maud  will  sing  and  play ;  and,  oh,  their  play- 
ing's  vile; 

And,  anyway,  just  now  at  least,  I'm  not  on  marriage  bent. 

(Deuced  frauds,  those  Smith  girls  are;  they  haven't  got  a 
cent!) 


"MAY-BE." 

EW  YEAB'S  a-looming  up  again,  and  Dad's  re 
solved  that  he, 
A  different  man  entirely  in  the  coming  year,  will 

be. 

He's  turned  a  new  leaf  over,  he's  a-thinking  deep  and  long, 
And  Dad's  a-resolutin'  and  a-resolutins  strong. 
He  says  he  knows  in  years  gone  by  he's  made  some  awful 

breaks. 

But  man  is  only  mortal,  and  we  all  make  some  mistakes. 
But  in  this  year  a-coming,  in  Dad  a  change  you'll  see — 
He's  made  ninety  resolutions,  and  he'll  keep  'em  all — 

Meb-be ! 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  71 

Dad  thinks  that  drink's  the  greatest  curse  in  this  wide 
world  to-day, 

And  Dad's  resolved  he'll  quit  it,  and  he'll  quit  it  right 
away. 

No  more  he'll  to  the  drug-store  go  and  tip  the  pill  man  off, 

And  wink,  and  say  he  wants  some  drops  to  cure  whooping- 
cough. 

Then,  when  he's  got  the  cough  cure  (which  is  old  Kentucky 

Rye), 

No  more  he'll  make  out  he's  a  bird,  and  show  Ma  how  to 

%. 

Pa  says,  saloon-men  should  be  in  the  penitentiary; 
He'll  never  touch  another  drop  in  all  his  life — 

Meb-be ! 

Another  thing  that  Pop's  resolved,  a  thing  he's  wild  about, 

He  says  that  swearing  ain't  genteel,  he's  going  to  cut  it  out. 

So  when  the  hammer  hits  his  thumb,  or  razor  cuts  Pop's 
cheek, 

He'll  do  his  cussing  inwardly,  and  say  long  words  in  Greek. 

He  says  it's  mighty  hard,  no  doubt,  your  language  to  ad 
just, 

And  if  he  don't  cuss  sometimes,  well — he  calculates  he'll 
bust. 

Pop  says  he's  cut  the  cuss  words  out  of  his  vocab'laree ! 

And  when  he  sits  down  on  a  tack  he'll  only  smile — 

Meb-be ! 


Pop's  made  a  resolution  that  he's  going  to  be  genteel, 
His  table  manners  from  henceforth  will  tony  be,  and  real. 
Pop's  knife  won't  go  into  his  mouth,  he  says,  that  action's 

rude; 
Henceforth  he'll  be  a  'ristocrat,  and  fork  up  all  his  food. 


72  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

And  when  he  gets  his  pie  henceforth,  'twill  just  delight 

your  soul, 

He'll  eat  it  in  one  bite  instead  of  swallering  of  it  whole. 
A  napkin,  too,  Pa's  going  to  have  spread  out  across  his 

knee, 
No  more  he'll  wipe  his  mouth  upon  the  tablecloth — 

Meb-be ! 

Another  thing  that  Dad's  resolved,  and  his  resolve  will 

hold; 
He  says  the  truth  it  must  prevail ;  truth's  better  far  than 

gold. 

So  Dad  no  more  will  tell  us  how  at  Vicksburg  in  the  war, 
He  killed  three  hundred  men  stone  dead,  and  captured 

ninety-four. 

No  more  he'll  yarn  about  that  fish  he  hauled  in  last  July, 
That  measured  eighty-four  feet  long,  and  took  six  weeks  to 

fry. 
And  'bout  the  "skeet"  who  ate  the  sheet,  the  bureau  and 

settee, 
Pop's  never  going  to  lie  again  in  all  his  life — 

Meb-be! 

And  so  Dad — he's  resolving,  and  resolving  day  and  night. 
He  says  he's  lived  the  past  all  wrong,  he'll  live  the  future 

right. 

The  golden  rule  he'll  follow  up,  and  pointers  he  will  give 
To  erring  fellow-critters,  on  the  proper  way  to  live. 
No  telling  fibs,  no  monkeying  with  liquor  that  is  red ; 
No  cussing  and  no  fussing,  no  grabbing  pie  or  bread ; 
No  cheating  or  contrariness,  and  good  old  Pop,  you'll  see, 
Will  keep  his  resolutions — for  a  half  a  day — 

Meb-be ! 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  73 


THE   ART    OF   BEING    GOOD. 

H,  Christmas  Day  is  coming,  and  'twould  do  you 

good  to  see 
The  wondrous  transformation  scene  that's  taken 

place  in  me. 

This  change  it  always  comes  about  this  season  of  the  year, 
When  Sandy  Claws  and  Yuletide  joys  are  slowly  drawing 

near. 

"Us  then  the  boist'rous  manner  of  the  youth  begins  to  go, 
And  an  angel  halo  'round  my  head  and  wings  commence  to 

grow; 
And  folks  start  in  to  wonder  why  I've  dropped  my  noisy 

ways. 
Well,  'tain't  because  I  like  to,  but  because  I  find  it  pays. 

Oh,  say,  you  ought  to  see  me  as  I  walk  around  the  house, 
As  meek,  and  mild,  and  humble,  and  as  silent  as  a  mouse; 
And  Ma  she'll  say :  "Oh,  son  dear,  will  you  kindly  close  the 

door?" 
And  I  reply:   "Of  course,  Ma,  with  the  greatest  pleasure, 

sure  I" 
Then  I  close  it,  oh,  so  gently,  while  Ma  looks  on  and 

smiles, 
(The  bang  it  gets  at  other  times  is  heard  around  for 

miles.) 

You'll  wonder  why  I  shut  that  door  so  gentle  and  so  pat: 
On  Christmas  Day  I'll  get  a  sleigh  and  pair  of  skates  for 

that! 

And  when  we're  at  the  table,  then  an  angel  boy  am  I, 
No  grabbing  for  the  sugar-bowl,  or  scrambling  for  the  pie. 
The  red-hot  soup  I  put  aside,  and  give  it  time  to  cool ; 
I  blow  it  till  it  decorates  the  ceiling,  as  a  rule. 


74  UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Mamma  she  looks  so  proud  of  me,  and,  when  I  ask  for 

cheese, 

I  startle  ev'rybody  by  saying :  "If  you  please !" 
Then  Pa  he  says:    "I  guess  we'll  make  a  gentleman  of 

Nat!" 
On  Christmas  morn  I'll  get  a  horn  and  train  of  cars  for 

that! 


And  when  we  go  to  meeting,  I  sing  just  like  a  bird, 
And  find  the  place  for  Pa  and  Ma,  and  follow  ev'ry  word ; 
While,  as  a  usual  thing,  I'm  in  the  depths  of  dire  disgrace, 
Get  half  the  leaves  torn  out  the  book,  and  never  know  the 

place. 

But  now  I'm  like  an  angel,  and  when  they  pass  the  plate, 
I  drop  in  it  a  whole  red  cent,  and  Pa  says :   "Sure  as  fate, 
We'll  send  our  Nat  as  Mission'ry  to  Siam  or  Kelat"; 
At  Christmastime,  I'll  get  a  dime  and  phonograph  for 

that! 

Oh,  say,  you  ought  to  see  me  when  my  sister's  beau  and  she 
Are  in  the  parlor  holding  hands ;  of  course,  I  never  see 
What's  going  on;  but  let  'em  spoon,  while  scarce  a  month 

before, 
You'd  have  found  me  'neath  the  sofa  hid,  or  squinting 

through  the  door. 
But  now — well,  I  just  turn  my  head  (wonders  will  never 

cease). 
I  let  them  make  their  "goo-goo"  eyes  and  spark  in  perfect 

peace. 
And  when  Jim  kisses  Sis;  well,  say,  I'm  blinder  than  a 

bat; 
When  Sandy's  'round,  I'll  get  a  pound  of  chocolate  fudge 

for  that! 


UNCL.S   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  75 

Now,  boys,  take  this  advice  from  me — it's  natural  you 
should ; 

And  listen  to  a  lecture  on  the  art  of  being  good. 

There's  not  much  money  in  it,  on  ordinary  days, 

But,  when  December  looms  in  view,  you'll  find  that  good 
ness  pays. 

For  Sandy  Claws  is  watching  you,  and  so  is  Pa  and  Ma ; 

On  your  behavior  all  depends,  just  what  you  get,  Ha !  Ha ! 

But  when  old  Sandy's  left  the  toys,  and  Christmas  Day  is 
o'er, 

Quit  the  angel  business,  and  become  a  pesky  boy  once  more. 


"I  DON'T  KNOW  WHO  HE  WAS." 

OME  boys  and  girls  are  bright  and  smart,  but  folks 

can  see  at  once, 
That  I'm  a  little,  backward  child,  a  perfect  little 

dunce. 

My  Maw  an'  teachers  try  so  hard  to  get  things  in  my  head, 
But  in  a  second  I  forget  just  ev'ry  word  that's  said. 
Maw  said  to-day  I  ought  to  try  my  little  life  to  plan, 
And  imitate  George  Washington — I  think  that  that's  the 

man; 
And  I'd  like  to  do  what  Mamma  says,  but  I  can't,  you  see, 

because 

I  never  heard  of  Washington,  and  I  don't  know  who  he 
was. 

Ma  talked  to-day  of  Lincoln,  and,  my!  how  her  tongue 

did  run, 
But  I  knew  no  more  when  she  got  through  than  when  she 

first  begun. 


76  UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

She  mentioned  something  'bout  the  slaves,  but  my  poor 

brain's  so  slow. 
Whether  he  freed  them,  or  they  freed  him,  I'm  bothered 

If  I  know. 

He  may  have  been  an  Englishman,  a  Eussian,  or  a  Turk ; 
Perhaps  he  was  some  lazy  boy  that  wouldn't  go  to  work ; 
Oh,  I'd  like  to  do  what  Mamma  says,  but  I  can't,  you  see, 

because 
I  never  heard  of  Lincoln,  and  I  don't  know  who  he  was. 

Napoleon's  another  name  my  Maw  holds  up  to  me. 

She  keeps  a-mumbling  o'er  that  name,  at  breakfast,  dinner, 

tea; 

I've  listened  to  her  now  for  years,  and  listened  to  her  good, 
But  don't  know  if  "Nap's"  a  boy  or  girl,  or  some  new 

breakfast  food. 

He  might  have  been,  for  all  I  know,  a  woman  or  a  man, 
Or,  maybe,  it's  some  patent  stuff  that  comes  packed  in  a 

can. 
Oh,  I'd  like  to  do  as  Mamma  says,  but  I  can't,  you  see, 

because 
I  never  heard  of  Napoleon,  and  I  don't  know  who  he  was. 

Ma  talks  of  Julius  Caesar,  and  she  talks  on  by  the  hour, 
And,  when  she  strikes  that  name,  her  voice  has  majesty  and 

power. 
She  shakes  with  fierce  excitement,  as  she  walks  the  parlor 

floor, 
But  the  only  Cassar  that  I  know  is  the  dog  that  lives  next 

door. 

If  Caesar  was  a  man,  a  cat,  a  dog,  door,  or  kangaroo, 
My  little  head's  too  thick  to  learn,  my  brains  they  never 

knew. 

Oh,  I'd  like  to  imitate  him,  but  I  can't,  you  see,  because 
I  never  heard  of  "Sneezer,"  and  I  don't  know  who  he  was. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  77 

Oh,  knowledge  is  the  thing  I  want;  it's  knowledge  that  I 

lack, 
But  I  can't  learn  while  boys  are  chalking  monkeys  on  my 

back! 

It's  impossible  to  study  hard,  no  matter  how  you  try, 
When  you  have  to  sit  'most  all  the  day  on  tacks  ten  inches 

high. 
And  no  wonder  I'm  a  dunce,  and  all  my  brains  are  in  a 

wreck, 
When  boys,  all  day,  put  bumblebees  and  "waspses"  down 

my  neck. 

So  Washington  and  Lincoln  I  can't  imitate,  because 
I  never  heard  their  names  a-fore,  and  I  don't  know  who 

they  was. 


THE  LITTLE  BIED  THAT'S  ALWAYS  TELLING 

MA. 


'VE  had  a  present  from  my  pa,  a  dandy  new  air-gun, 
And  now  I'm  going  out-of-doors  to  have  no  end  of 

fun. 
The  neighbors'  cats  are  safe  from  me,  I've  got  no 

quarrel  with  them; 
The  rabbits,  squirrels,  chipmunks,  hares,  to  death  I  don't 

condemn. 

Wolves,  Indians,  mountain-lions,  coyotes,  bear  and  deer 
Can  look  into  the  muzzle  of  my  gun  and  have  no  fear, 
But  I  have  sworn  fierce  vengeance,  and  am  on  the  trail; 

ha!  ha! 
Of  the  horrid,  spiteful  little  bird  thaf  s  always  telling  Ma. 


78  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

How  happy  would  have  been  my  life,  how  gay,  and  free 

from  care, 

Had  Nature  made  no  little  birds  to  navigate  the  air. 
What  whippings  I  would  have  been  spared,  the  lash  that 

fiercely  stung, 
Had  one  mean  tell-tale  bird  had  but  the  sense  to  hold  its 

tongue. 
For,  since  I  can  remember  (that's  some  eight  long,  troubled 

years), 

That  horrid  bird  has  spied  on  me,  and,  oh !  the  bitter  tears 
That  tell-tale  wretch  has  caused  me;  for,  no  matter  what 

I  do, 
That  little  bird  has  told  my  Ma  before  the  day  is  through. 


If  we  had  birds  in  all  the  rooms,  in  cellar,  attic,  too, 
I  shouldn't  wonder,  then,  if  Ma  of  all  my  actions  knew, 
But  all  we've  got's  a  parrot,  and  since  the  day  Pa  came 
Crash !  headlong  down  the  parlor  stairs,  Poll's  never  been 

the  same. 

She  just  sits  in  that  cage  of  hers,  repeating,  word  for  word, 
The  strange  remarks  Pa  made  the  day  his  accident  oc 
curred. 
So  my  Ma's  chance  of  hearing  tales  from  Polly's  mighty 

small, 
For  she's  so  busy  swearing,  she's  no  time  to  talk  at  all. 


If  my  Tom  cat  had  told  on  me,  I  should  not  wonder,  for, 
These  many  moons,  'twixt  Tom  and  I  there's  been  a  state 

of  war. 

But  Tom  has  never  said  a  word,  nor  has  the  goat,  or  dog ; 
The  roosters,  hens,  the  ducks,  the  geese,  the  horse,  the  mule 

or  hog, 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  79 

With  all  of  these  at  various  times  I've  had  fierce  scenes  of 

strife, 

But  not  a  one  has  ever  told  on  me  in  all  my  life. 
While  feathered  friends  I've  left  unharmed,  to  sing  up  in 

the  tree, 
Have  joined  in  a  conspiracy  to  tell  Ma  tales  on  me. 

I  once  got  in  the  cellar  deep,  where  Ma  keeps  all  her  pies ; 
I  grinned,  and  said :   "Well,  here  at  least  no  little  birdie's 

eyes 
Can  look  and  see  what's  going  on,  though  birds  they  know 

a  trick, 
I  guess  they  can't  peek  through  a  wall  that's  close  on  three 

feet  thick." 

And  so  I  chuckled,  and  I  ate  till  I  was  sick  as  death. 
Then  dragged  myself  up  to  my  bed,  and  fairly  gasped  for 

breath. 
Then  Ma  arrived  with  fierce  rawhide,  and,  as  I  squealed 

with  pain, 
I  quick  inferred  that  same  old  bird  had  told  on  me  again. 

So  wonder  not  that  I  am  hot  upon  the  trail  of  one 
Who's  robbed  poor  me,  from  infancy,  of  oceans  full  of  fun. 
And  when  that  bird  lies  safe  interred  in  Mother  Earth, 

then  I 

Can  softly  creep  in  cellar  deep,  and  fill  myself  with  pie. 
If  cream  and  cake  I  chance  to  take,  should  ball  through 

window  go, 
I'll  fear  no  wrath ;  for,  now  henceforth,  who  did  it,  none 

will  know. 

Oh,  life  will  be  sweet  bliss  to  me,  a  Paradise,  ha !  ha ! 
When  I  have  lured  to  death  the  bird  that's  always  telling 

Ma! 


80  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 


SINCE  KATIE  WENT  TO  COOKING-SCHOOL. 

NE  dreadful  day,  to  my  dismay,  Kate  got  it  in  her 

head 
The  cook  should  go,  the  maid  also;  she'd  run  the 

house,  instead. 
She'd  lessons  take,  to  roast  and  bake ;  she'd  cook  the  meals, 

while  I 
Paid  ev'ry  bill,  and  made  my  will,  and  then  prepared  to 

die. 
A  cooking  course,  without  remorse  she  took,  and  then  with 

glee 
Swift  home  returned,  and  all  she'd  learned  she  tried  on 

helpless  me. 
Soups  boiling  hot  for  me  she  got,  and  wouldn't  let  them 

cool. 
0,  cruel  fate  that  prompted  Kate  to  go  to  cooking-school. 

Kate  used  to  say,  ten  times  a  day,  I  was  her  only  mash ; 
Now  she  mashes  the  potatoes,  and  she  dotes  upon  the  hash. 
And,  when  of  soul  I  talk,  she'll  roll  her  eyes  and  say :  "Of 

course ; 

You  save  that  sole  for  me,  and  I  will  serve  it  with  a  sauce." 
I  never  saw  so  many  sauces  as  that  girl  can  fix ; 
If  she'd  my  heart,  then  a  la  carte  she'd  serve  it  boiled  at 

six. 
Her  head's  a  kitchen  range,  and  all  deranged.    Oh,  what  a 

fool 
I  was  to  let  my  Katie  pet  go  to  the  cooking-school ! 

But,  oh !  the  scenes,  when  she  serves  beans ;  I  greet  them 

with  a  yell. 
I'm  a  "has-been,"  so  she  calls  me,  and  I've  been  a  brute  as 

well. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  81 

And  the  corned  beef,  it's  so  full  of  corns,  I  instantly  insist 
She  send  for  a  corn  doctor,  or  expert  chiropodist. 
And,  as  for  game,  it  is  a  shame,  for  help  I  have  to  bawl. 
I'm  pretty  game,  but  Katie's  "game" — well,  I  can't  stand 

at  aU. 

Her  tapioca;  it  would  choke  a  goat,  or  kill  a  mule. 
Oh,  wicked  fate  that  tempted  Kate  to  go  to  cooking-school. 

Kate's  bread  has  bred  dyspepsia.    I'm  not  a  carpin  oaf; 
But  her  yeast  will  raise  a  riot,  but  'twill  never  raise  a  loaf. 
Her  ketchup,  it  will  fetch  up  a  train  of  mem'ries  vile, 
And,  when  it's  served,  I  ketch  up  my  hat  and  run  a  mile. 
We've  cereals  at  all  the  meals — it  makes  my  poor  heart 

bleed — 
They're  the  kind  of  cereals  you  can't  eat,  and  neither  can 

you  read. 

Her  punch  I  have,  to  punch  it — it's  sure  death,  as  a  rule. 
Oh,  sad  the  day  Kate  strayed  away  to  go  to  cooking-school. 

Kate's  bully  on  the  bouillon — that  soup  I  guess  you  know. 
Her  ox-tail  soup  gives  me  the  croup,  it's  made  of  tales  of 

woe. 
Her  salad-dressing  keeps  me  guessing,  makes  me  whoop  and 

prance. 
The  way  her  dressed  tomatoes  taste,  they  must  be  dressed 

in  pants. 
Her  shredded  wheat  the  world  will  beat;  for  months  that 

stuff  I've  stood. 
She  says  it's  shredded  wheat,  but  I  can  swear  it's  shredded 

wood. 

Her  consomme  is  cream  of  hay.    Oh,  what  a  luckless  fool 
I  was  to  let  my  Katie  pet  go  to  the  cooking-school. 

Kate's  custard  pie,  it  will  defy  a  buzz-saw ;  it's  a  crime, 
And,  when  I  get  that  pie,  you  bet  it's  cust-hard  eVry  time. 


82  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

Her  kidney  stews  give  me  the  blues.  I  take  one  bite  and 
shriek ! 

I  touch  that  stew,  and  when  I'm  through  I'm  stew-pid  for 
a  week. 

Her  fricassees  they  fail  to  please;  I'll'  touch  them  not 
again. 

Whene'er  I  touch  her  fricassees  I'm  frica-seized  with  pain. 

Her  beef  extract,  my  cranium  cracked;  it  makes  me  tear 
my  wool 

And  cuss  the  fate  that  tempted  Kate  to  go  to  cooking- 
school. 


WHEN  POP  PLAYED  SANDY  CLAWS. 

HERE  are  memories  that  haunt  a  fellow  till  his 

dying  day, 
And  scoff  at  Father  Time's  attempt  to  banish 

them  away; 
There  are  thoughts  that  crush  the  heart  and  soul,  and 

make  the  eyelids  droop, 
And  funny  thoughts  that  make  a  man  get  up  and  fairly 

whoop. 

As  Christmas  is  a-coming,  somehow  I  tho't  that  you 
Would  like  to  know  of  the  events  of  Christmas,  '92 ; 
And  I'm  going  to  tell  you  'bout  it,  and,  most  of  all,  because 
It  was  that  particular  Christmas  that  Pop  played  Sandy 
Claws. 

I  was  just  a  little  nipper  then,  but  I  remember  well 
How  Pop  had  got  a  secret ;  what  it  was  he  wouldn't  tell, 
And  he  kept  a-talking  to  himself,  and  wandered  'round  the 

house 
Mysterious  as  a  Tom  cat  when  it's  stalking  down  a  mouse. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  83 

We  youngsters  used  to  follow  him,  for  boys,  of  course,  they 

know 
When  something  strange  is  in  the  wind ;  and  so,  one  night, 

oh !  oh ! 

We  crept  up  in  the  attic,  an  old  store-room  of  Maw's, 
And  .there  saw  Pop  dressing  up  in  clothes  like  Sandy 

Claws. 

Well,  Christmas  Day  it  came  around,  and  happy  boys  were 

we, 

For  fun  we  knew  was  in  the  air,  and  kids  adore  a  spree. 
We  waited  at  the  chimney  hours,  for  Sandy  to  come  down 
And  fetch  a  ton  of  candy,  toys,  and  presents  in  from  town. 
We  asked  the  folks  where  Pop  had  gone,  but  no  one  seemed 

to  know, 
And  Sandy,  where  was  he? — folks  guessed  he'd  got  stuck 

in  the  snow. 
Then  dinnertime  rolled  'round,  and  we  all  burst  in  tears, 

because 
We  couldn't  find  a  single  trace  of  Pop  or  Sandy  Claws. 

Maw — she  was  simply  furious — the  clock  had  just  struck 

two; 

No  sign  of  Pop,  and  dinner  pretty  nearly  half-way  through. 
She  guessed  that  Pop  was  lost  or  killed,  then  started  in  to 

cry, 
And  brother  Bill,  he  showed  his  grief  by  grabbing  half  the 

pie. 

We  polished  off  the  dinner,  and  were  munching  at  the  fruit, 
When  crash !  bang !  down  the  chimney  came  a  half  a  ton.  of 

soot, 
And  then  we  heard  an  awful  yell — the  voice  resembled 

Paw's, 
And  Bill  said :   "Bud,  I'll  bet  that's  Pop  a-playing  Sandy 

Claws." 


84  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

Aunt  Jane  rushed  to  the  chimney;  say,  I  thought  that  I 

should  die, 
For  half  a  brick  flopped  on  her  nose  and  bounced  off  in  her 

eye. 
Then  up  the  chimney  Maw  she  peeked;  her  head,  it  shot 

back  soon, 
Her  face  all  covered  thick  with  soot,  and  blacker  than  a 

coon. 
The  yells  grew  worse ;  we  recognized  the  voice  of  Dad ;  and, 

say, 

His  language,  it  will  haunt  my  ears  until  my  dying  day. 
"I've  got  stuck  in  the  chimney,"  said  Pop ;  "get  ropes  and 

saws/' 
Say,  this  is  what  a  feller  gets  for  playing  Sandy  Claws. 

We  rushed  out  for  a  ladder,  then,  and  Uncle  Joe  and  Dick, 
They  banged  it  'gainst  the  chimney,  and  that  loosened  up  a 

brick; 
And  the  brick,  of  course,  fell  down  inside ;  and,  oh !  the 

words  Pa  said 
When  that  old  brick  connected  with  the  bald  spot  on  his 

head. 
Then  down  we  let  a  rope  to  him,  and  tugged  times  out  of 

mind, 
While,  broom  in  hand,  Maw  went  to  work  and  boosted  Pop 

behind ; 
They  tugged,  but  all  in  vain,  for  Pop  was  trapped,  and  all 

because 
His  pants  were  stuffed  with  straw,  to  make  him  fat  like 

Sandy  Claws. 

Well,  Pop  was  stuck,  and  stuck  for  keeps ;  we  had  to  send 

to  town, 
And  get  a  wrecking-crew  to  come,  and  tear  the  chimney 

down. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  85 

Then  they  hitched  Pop  to  a  derrick,  and  out  they  yanked 

him  quick, 
And,  when  we  saw  the  sight  he  was,  we  laughed  till  we 

were  sick. 

We  had  to  turn  the  hose  on  him,  and  wash  off  all  the  dirt. 
You  ought  'er  heard  Pop's  language  when  the  hose  began 

to  squirt. 
"I've  lost  an  eye  and  arm,"  he  said,  "and  pulverized  my 

jaws." 
That  was  the  last   time,  bet  your  life,  that  Pop  played 

Sandy  Claws! 


"WHEN  BABY  WRITES  A  LETTER." 

HEN"  Baby  writes  a  letter  to  her  Daddy  far  away, 
The  occasion's  most  important,  for  she  has  so 

much  to  say. 
She  sits  up  to  the  table,  as  grown-up  folks  all 

do, 

And  then  a  pile  of  paper  all  around  her  we  must  strew. 
With  Grandma's  golden  spectacles  safe  perched  upon  her 

nose, 
She  dips  her  pen  into  the  ink,  then  straight  to  work  she 

goes, 
And  the  onslaught  fierce  that  follows  would  fill  you  with 

dismay — 
When  Baby  writes  a  letter  to  her  Daddy  far  away. 

"Baby  sends  her  love  to  Daddy,  and  hopes  that  he  is  well," 
Is  the  sentence  Baby  first  indites — her  methods  I  must 

tell— 
For  the  sweet  and  simple  message  that  expresses  Bab/s 

love 
Is  a  dot  and  dash,  and  big  ink-splash  below  and  just  above. 


86  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

She  perforates  the  paper  with  many  tiny  pricks, 

And  plays  a  tattoo  on  her  chair  with  sundry  little  kicks, 

And  all  the  floor  is  scattered  o'er  with  fragments  of  the 

fray, 
To  tell  us  Baby's  writing  to  her  Daddy  far  away. 

The  letter  is  a  long  one,  for  scores  of  sheets  are  used, 
And  every  one  bears  witness  to  the  way  it's  been  abused. 
A  page  for  every  word  she  takes,  she  quite  ignores  the  lines, 
While  each  one,  as  it's  written,  to  oblivion  she  consigns ; 
Then  proudly  for  an  envelope  Miss  Baby  now  will  call, 
And  she  fills  it  full  of  paper,  with  no  writing  on  at  all. 
The  address  is  so  illegible,  I  must  regret  to  say, 
It's  doubtful  if  'twill  ever  reach  dear  Daddy  far  away. 


HELP    WANTED. 

E  went  housekeeping,  Maud  and  I, 
And  vainly  both  of  us  did  try 
A  maid  to  find,  but  none  came  by, 
The  desired  girl. 


At  last,  after  a  search  of  years, 
Of  offers  golden — copious  tears, 
Upon  the  threshold  there  appears 
The  hired  girl; 

A  maid  from  Erin's  Emerald  Isle, 
Of  foot-thick  brogue  and  yard-wide  smile, 
Who  slept  all  day  and  snored  the  while, 
The  tired  girl. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  87 

At  last,  one  silent,  fateful  night, 
An  Irish  maid  took  sudden  flight, 
And  on  the  sidewalk  did  alight 
The  -fired  girl. 


WILLIE'S  OPINION  OF  BABIES. 

ALWAYS  thought  that  babies,  they  was  kind  of 

useless  things, 
For  none  of  them  can  use  their  legs,  an'  none  of 

them  has  wings. 
They're  funny  little  helpless  mites,  can't  neither  walk  nor 

%, 

An'  they  ain't  no  use  for  nothin',  except  to  bawl  an'  cry. 
Pa  says  we  all  was  babies  once,  but  guess  that  can't  be  so, 
An'  if  we  was,  then  my  ideals  has  got  a  fearful  blow. 
For  if  Washington  an'  Lafayette  ate  pap  an'  used  to  cry, 
You'll  please  excuse  poor  Willie  if  he  thinks  it's  time  to 
die. 

When  of  Washington  I  think,  an'  Napoleon  the  First, 
A-bein'  little  babies  all  cuddled  up  an'  nurst, 
A-suckin'  of  a  bottle,  an'  a,-rubbin'  of  their  nose, 
An'  a-trying  might  an'  main  to  fill  their  little  mouths  with 

toes, 

An'  eatin'  paddy  goric,  an'  kickin'  up  a  din, 
Because  of  close  connections  with  some  unsafe  safety  pin, 
Then  my  heart  is  just  clean  broken,  an'  if  some  dark  cor 

ner's  nigh, 
I  feel  like  crawlin'  in  it  an'  a-layin'  down  to  die. 


88  UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

It's  just  a  horrid  shame  to  go  an'  burst  a  boy's  ideals. 
It  simply  breaks  a  feller  up,  you  don't  know  how  it  feels. 
To  think  of  mighty  Washington,  who  crossed  the  Delaware, 
The  man  who  fought  ten  thousand  foes,  and  never  turned 

a  hair ! 

The  Father  of  his  Country,  a-sprawlin'  on  the  floor 
An'  yellin'  murder,  'cause  of  pains  beneath  his  pinafore. 
Oh !  it  drives  me  wild  an'  frantic,  an'  I  feel  I  want  to  fly 
An'  take  my  torn  an'  bleeding  heart  to  some  far  land  an' 

die. 

I  thought  that  mighty  Washington  was  half  a  god  like 

Jove, 

An'  had  a  fiery  chariot,  an'  fiery  horses  drove, 
An'  bounced  down  from  the  clouds  at  dawn,  an'  put  King 

George  to  flight: 
An',  when  the  red-coats  all  was  licked,  went  back  agen  at 

night. 

A  sort  of  close  relation  to  Olympus  Jove,  Esquire, 
Who  roasted  red-hot  thunderbolts  before  his  kitchen  fire. 
But  Washington  was  just  a  boy,  ate  cake  an'  yelled  for  pie. 
So  please  excuse  poor  Willie  if  he  crawls  away  to  die. 

An'  thus  I  was  a-musin'  an'  a-nursin'  brother  Ben; 

I'd  push  his  carriage  up  the  block  an'  half-way  home  agen, 

When  Jimmy  Doolan  came  along,  an'  Jim  so  cheeky  got, 

There  wasn't  nothin'  else  to  do  but  thrash  him  on  the  spot ; 

An'  as  I  was  a-doin'  it,  my  baby  brother  he 

Just  cooed,  an'  laughed,  an'  stomped  his  feet,  an'  went  just 
wild  with  glee, 

An'  when  I  licked  that  Doolan  boy,  his  little  hands  he 
claps, 

An'  made  me  think  that  Wash'ton  was  a  baby  once — per 
haps. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  89 

One  morning  Aunt  Jemima  put  Ben  into  bed  with,  me; 
He  was  suckin'  at  his  bottle,  an'  I  thought  'twould  be  a 

spree 
To  pull  the  rubber  from  his  mouth,  an'  see  what  he  would 

do; 

An'  so  I  did,  an',  in  a  jiff,  into  a  rage  he  flew, 
An'  doubled  up  his  little  fists  an'  pummeled  me  right  there, 
An'  rolled  his  eyes,  an'  snorted  fierce,  an'  pulled  my  nose 

an'  hair, 

An*  gave  me  such  a-hidin'  that  for  help  I  had  to  call. 
So  Washington  an'  Nap',  I  guess,  were  babies,  after  all. 


A  FEW  THINGS  TO  BE  THANKFUL  FOE. 

HEY'EE  a-fixing  up  the  turkey,  they're  a-touching 

up  the  sass, 
They're  cuttin'  up  the  pumpkin'  pie — it's  handier 

to  pass; 

They've  got  the  ol'  plum  puddin'  a-sizzlin'  in  the  pot, 
An'  the  vegetables,  Mandy  says,  will  all  be  pipin'  hot. 
So,  now,  it  is  my  privilege,  an'  honor,  for  to  go 
An'  tap  a  keg  of  cider  in  the  cellar  down  below ; 
I'm  the  only  one  who'll  touch  it,  an'  I'm  going  to  tell  you 

pat, 

Of  all  Thanksgiving  blessings,  I  am  thankful  most  for 
that. 

We've  got  a  crowd  invited  to  the  dinner;  there's  Bill 

Hubbs, 
You  recollect  ol'  Bill,  of  course,  what  married  Widder 

Grubbs. 

An'  there's  ol'  Joshua  Tadpole,  what  sparked  Jemima  Gee, 
Without  exaggerating  he  can  eat  enough  for  three; 


90  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

An',  when  the  good  oF  turkey  shows  itself  upon  the  deck, 
Mandy  takes  good  care  to  see  oF  Joshua  gets  the  neck. 
.The  doctor's  stopped  Josh  eating'  said  he'd  suffocate  in 

fat— 
So  humbly  ask  a  blessin',  an*  thank  Providence  for  that. 

Nell  Quackenbush  is  comin',  too,  of  course  you  all  know 

Nell, 
Her  eyes  axe  like  twin  vi'lets;  she's  the  Hick'ry  Corners 

belle. 

An'  the  most  romantic  thing  on  earth,  no  feller  will  deny, 
Is  when  Nell's  pearly  teeth  shut  down  on  half  a  pumpkin 

pie. 
Nell  always  sits  right  next  to  me,  an*  when  I  pass  the 


Or  cake  and  cream,  she  bows  perlite,  an'  gives  my  hand  a 

squeeze. 

Mandy,  she  wears  glasses,  an'  is  blind  'er  than  a  bat  ; 
She  don't  see  half  that's  goin'  on  —  let's  thankful  be  for 

that! 

The  minister's  a-comin',  he's  a  man  we  all  hold  dear  ; 

(Eats  as  tho'  he  hadn't  tasted  food  for  half  a  year.) 

An'  the  way  he  says  the  blessin'  —  if  s  a  blessin'  short  and 

slim  — 

Shows  turkey,  not  religion's,  got  the  upper  hand  of  him. 
His  wife,  too,  was  invited  —  say,  that  woman  talks  a  streak  ; 
Can't  get  a  word  in  edgeways,  if  you  waited  for  a  week  ; 
She's  bedfast  with  the  rheumatiz,  an'  sicker  than  a  cat, 
So  pulverize  the  turkey,  an'  thank  Providence  for  that  ! 

OP  Doctor  Squills,  alas  !  can't  come  —  you  know  old  Doc,  of 

course; 
He'll  practice  on  a  human  being,  or  medicate  a  horse. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  91' 

Doc  never  went  to  college,  but  he'll  kill  a  man.  as  slick, 

As  them  there  city  doctors  can,  an',  maybe,  twice  as  quick. 

"Doc"  ain't  much  good  at  treatin'  folks,  but  everyone  al 
lows 

He's  a  wonder  when  it  comes  to  doc'trin'  horses,  hens  an' 
cows. 

Doc's  gone  to-day  to  treat  a  hog  thaf  s  sick  at  Poker  Flat ; 

So,  down  the  cranb'ry  sass  an'  thank  kind  Providence  for 
that. 

We'll  gather  'round  the  festive  board  that's  groaning  with 

good  cheer, 

For  ol'  Thanksgivin'  only  comes  just  one  day  in  the  year. 
Don't  bother  'bout  dyspepsee,  but  let  the  vittles  soar 
To  that  spot  assigned  by  .nature  till  you  just  can't  hold  no 

more. 

Just  loosen  up  the  buttons,  an'  the  neckwear  get  untied ; 
So's  to  give  the  good  ol'  turkey  room  to  circulate  inside. 
Then  slide  into  the  rocker,  or  stretch  out  upon  the  mat, 
An'  that  you  ain't  exploded,  thank  kind  Providence  for 

that! 


"WHEN  CASEY  CAME  HOME  SOBER" 

HERE'S   trouble   down  in   Casey's  block,  there's 

heaps  of  trouble  there, 
And  many  an  imprecation  deep  is  flying  through 

the  air; 

For  Casey  has  disgraced  himself,  and  the  block  it  feels  ag 
grieved — 

For  it's  very  proud  of  Casey,  and  it  hates  to  be  deceived. 
Pat  Casey  never  yet  was  known  to  draw  a  sober  breath, 
And  Casey  said  that  if  he  did  'twould  surely  cause  his 
death ;  '  m   . 


92  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

And  now  the  block  is  crazy,  and  trouble  there  is  rife, 
For  Casey  's  come  home  sober,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

Pat  Casey  was  the  "mixed-ale  king,"  the  champion  of  his 

class. 

He  drank  a  half  a  dozen  kegs  while  others  drained  a  glass. 
The  block  was  madly  proud  of  him,  and  now  it  feared  to 

lose 

The  glorious  reputation  of  its  uncrowned  king  of  booze. 
So  ev'ry  growler,  duck  and  can  was  quickly  on  the  chase, 
And  quarts  of  ale  and  lager  soon  were  dashed  in  Casey's 

face, 
And  soon  the  glorious  news  went  out  to  thousands  'round 

the  door, 
"The  honor  of  the  block  is  saved ;  great  Casey  's  full  once 

more." 

Poor  Casey  couldn't  understand  how  things  all  came  about ; 
He  must  have  sobered  while  asleep,  of  that  there  was  no 

doubt. 

He  deeply  felt  the  sad  disgrace,  he  keenly  felt  the  pain. 
And  swore  that  beastly  sober  he  would  never  be  again. 
The  morals  of  the  neighborhood  he'd  never  more  offend, 
But  a  decent,  drunken  Casey  he'd  remain  until  the  end ; 
And  he  promised  ne'er  again  that  he  to  death  would  scare 

his  wife, 
By  coming  home  quite  sober  any  more  in  all  his  life. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  93 


SETTLIN'-UP    TIME. 

T'S  settling  time  at  Jones'  store,  and  folks  for  miles 

around 
For  Happy  Valley  Corners,  with  their  produce, 

now  are  bound; 
There's  Hiram  Lucks,  he's  hauling  ducks,  and  Bill  Smith's 

freighting  hogs. 
He's  going  to  exchange  'em  for  some  brand-new  Sunday 

togs. 

Samanthy  Denns,  her  eggs  and  hens,  is  going  to  convert 
Eight  into  sugar,  coffee,  tea,  and  gingham  for  a  skirt ; 
Old  Jabez  Reece  has  squash  and  geese,  and  turkeys,  too,  a 

score ; 

And,  bright  and  gay,  all  wend  their  way  to  Jones'  general 
store. 

It's  settling  time  at  Jones'  store,  and  country  folks  all 

meet, 
And  with  a  hearty  "Howd'y  do!"  each  other  now  they 

greet. 
"Well,  Mandy  Jane,"  says  Farmer  Elaine,  "how's  Joe,  and 

sister  Liz?" 
"Joe  's  good  and  slick,"  says  Mandy  quick,  "but  Liz  has 

rheumatiz." 
"How  goes  the  crops?"  says  Eeuben  Hopps  of  Ebenezer 

Hugs. 
Says  Eb.  "0.  K.  we  find  the  hay,  but  fruit 's  eat  up  with 

bugs." 

Thus  to  and  fro,  enquiries  go,  from  eight  a.  m.  till  four. 
Then  roosters  crow,  to  let  you  know  that  settling  time  is 

o'er. 


94  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Now  homeward  roll,  the  jovial  eouls,  along  the  country 

roads, 
All  blithe  and  gay  they  wend  their  way  to  scattered  far 

abodes; 

And  in  each  wagon  snugly  lies  all  that  the  city  yields 
In  rich  abundance  to  the  man  who  tills  the  smiling  fields. 
There's  ribbons  for  the  housewife,  muslin  good  for  Sarah 

Anne; 
For  Gran-dad  there's  tobacco,  shirts  and  shoes  for  Ed  and 

Dan; 

And  an  organ  for  the  parlor  that  makes  melodies  sublime. 
No  joys  there  are  like  to  the  joys  that  come  with  settling 

time. 


THE    CAUTIOUS   LOVER 

ARLING,  at  last  I  am  alone,  and  now  take  up  my 

pen 
To  tell  thee  that,  indeed,  I  am  the  happiest  of 

men. 

Thou  art  my  first,  my  only  love — I  ne'er  have  loved  before 
(Excepting  Sue  and  Mayme  and  Liz,  and  half  a  dozen 
more) . 

Oh,  wondrous  is  this  thing  called  love  that  now  fills  all  my 

life! 
Ah,  blessed  day  that  soon  will  dawn  when  I  shall  call  thee 

wife! 
Ah,  then  with  joy,  full,  full  will  be  and  brimming  o'er  my 

cup 
(My  bliss  depending  on  the  way  your  father  "ponies"  up). 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  95 

So  filled  am  I  with  thoughts  of  thee,  my  heart  and  breast 

aflame, 
That  ev'ry  wand'ring  zephyr  seems  to  murmur  o'er  thy 

name. 
With  thee  and  thoughts  of  thee  I  live,  and  hunger  flees 

away — 
For  love  is  all  the  food  I  crave  (and  three  "square"  meals 

per  day). 

I  pace  my  chamber  through  the  night  and  gaze  up  at  the 

stars, 
And  then  my  soul  leaps  forth  in  flight  and  breaks  down  all 

its  bars, 

And  with  thee,  sweet,  in  other  worlds  a  lover's  tryst  I  keep 
(Which  proves  a  man  can  do  a  heap  when  he  is  fast 

asleep). 

Thou  art  my  life,  and  shouldst  thou  ask  of  me  some  proof 
of  love, 

To  fight  with  dragons  in  the  deeps  or  storm  the  heights 
above, 

Forth,  then,  thy  champion  I  would  go;  my  love  is  so  in 
tense, 

That  for  thy  sake  I'd  gladly  die  (about  ten  centuries 
hence). 


96  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 


"HE    KNEW   IT    THEN." 


WOOED  sweet  Clementina  Jones, 
In  eloquent,  impassioned  tones, 
And  shrunk  unto  a  bag  of  bones. 

I  wooed  with  tongue  and  pen. 
I  scarce  could  eat — I'd  no  desire — 
I  sought  seclusion,  twanged  a  lyre; 
My  breast  burnt  up  with  molten  fire, 
I  knew  what  love  was  then. 

I  pressed  my  suit — and  at  her  feet 
My  heart  I  laid,  and  fortune  neat; 
Then  told  her  how  that  poor  heart  beat, 

Beyond  all  mortal  ken. 
But  icily  she  answered:  "No," 
Then  bade  me  from  her  presence  go, 
And,  weighted  'neath  a  world  of  woe, 

I  knew  what  grief  was  then. 

Another  suitor  came  one  night, 

My  heart  was  frozen  at  the  sight; 

She  saw  him,  and  her  eyes  flashed  bright- 

The  handsomest  of  men; 
He  wooed,  and  to  the  altar  led 
She  whom  I  loved,  and  they  were  wed ; 
My  heart  within  my  breast  lay  dead. 

Despair.    I  knew  it  then. 

Years  passed ;  by  chance  I  saw  again 
And  met  once  more  these  lovers  twain ; 
He  fat  and  bald — she  thin  and  plain — 
Of  children  they  had  ten; 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  97 

And,  oh !  I  smiled  with  sweet  content, 
To  find  he  couldn't  pay  his  rent, 
And  that  she  squandered  every  cent. 
Ah !  joy!    I  knew  it  then. 


BELINDA   ANNE. 

N  Hallowe'en  night,  when  the  logs  blaze  bright, 

And  the  frost  lies  white  on  the  ground, 
And  the  bleak  wind  moans  in  dismal  tones, 

Then  we  love  to  gather  around 
The  cheerful  glow  on  the  hearth ;  and,  oh ! 

Thaf  s  the  time  when  Belinda  Anne 
Such  tales  will  tell  of  what  befell 
When  she  first  met  the  "Pollywog  Man." 

She  said  that  the  Pollywog  had  a  head 

That  measured  a  yard  around, 
And  the  queerest  eyes,  like  pumpkin  pies, 

And  walked  a  foot  from  the  ground — 
She  thought  his  shoes  must  be  twenty-twos ; 

And  he'd  a  beard  of  black  and  tan, 
Which,  to  his  disgrace,  he  shook  in  the  face 

Of  poor  Belinda  Anne. 

Then  she  told  how,  once,  when  walking  about, 

She  came  to  a  fairy  court, 
And  the  gallants  gay,  in  bright  array, 

About  her  'gan  to  sport. 
They  were  choosing  a  queen,  such  a  beauteous  scene 

Ne'er  had  been  since  the  world  began ; 
And,  by  gen'ral  consent,  the  most  votes  went, 

Of  course — to  Belinda  Anne. 


gg  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

One  night,  she  said,  she'd  pains  in  her  head, 

And  her  work  wasn't  half-way  through — 
Dishes  piled  in  a  heap — when  she  fell  asleep, 

As  most  of  the  hired  girls  do. 
Then  she  woke  with  a  start;  for,  bless  your  heart, 

There  stood  the  Pollywog  Man 
Washing  dishes  a  score  and  scrubbing  the  floor, 

To  the  joy  of  Belinda  Anne. 


POOR   DOLLIE'S    SICK. 

READ  lightly  on  the  parlor  floor, 
And  mind  the  creaking  stair; 
Be  careful  not  to  slam  the  door; 

And,  Fido,  don't  you  dare 
To  bark,  or  even  wag  your  tail ; 
And  see  the  clocks  don't  tick, 
For  Dollie's  health's  begun  to  fail. 
And,  oh !  she's  very  sick. 

The  doctor's  here !  his  looks  are  grave, 

He  sounds  poor  Dollie's  chest, 
And  asks  what  kind  of  food  she  craves, 

And  if  she  can  digest 
Her  meals;  and  pulse  and  temperature 

He  takes,  and  starts  to  stick 
Some  plaster  on  the  wounds,  to  cure 

Poor  Dollie  where  she's  sick. 

We  none  of  us  exactly  know 

Just  what  is  the  disease 
Poor  Dollie's  got,  but  there's  a  flow 

Of  sawdust,  if  you  please, 


UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  99 

From  limbs,  and  joints,  and  ribs  and  bones ; 

So  hurry,  now,  be  quick ! 
Fetch  little  "Doctor"  Willie  Jones; 

For,  oh!  poor  Dollie's  sick. 

Then,  next  her  arm  he  vaccinates, 

(A  toasting-fork  is  used), 
And  Dollie's  mamma  he  berates, 

And  says  she  has  abused 
Her  daughter's  health ;  and,  also,  we 

Sent  for  him  in  the  nick 
Of  time  to  save  her  life;  for  she 

Is  very,  very  sick. 

Her  temp'rature's  a  "thousand,"  and 

Her  pulse  is  nine-naught-two, 
But  "Doctor"  Jones  can  understand 

Her  case,  and  pull  her  through; 
He  takes  an  apple  for  his  fee — 

All  fears  we  now  dispel; 
And,  as  he  bows  and  leaves,  we  see — 

Hey,  presto !  Dollie's  well ! 


BABY'S  FIEST  SUNDAY  IN  CHUECH. 

WAS  a  great  event  in  baby's  life 

When  first  to  church  she  went; 
She  cried  for  weeks  to  go,  until 

Her  mamma  gave  consent. 
Now,  up  the  aisle  she's  proudly  marched, 

Most  gloriously  arrayed, 
Decked  out  in  all  her  Sunday  best, 
And  not  one  bit  afraid. 


100  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

She  promised,  oh,  to  be  so  good, 

And  never  say  a  word ; 
But,  as  she  toddled  up  the  aisle, 

The  congregation  heard 
A  little  baby's  voice  repeat 

(As  baby's  always  do), 
"Does  ev'rybody,  mamma,  know 

That  all  my  clo  thes  are  new  ?" 

At  length  she's  seated,  and,  amazed, 

She  gazes  all  around ; 
And,  when  the  organ  starts  to  play, 

She  marvels  at  the  sound; 
And,  soon  again,  in  accents  clear, 

'Are  heard  these  childish  words : 
"Oh,  mamma,  what's  the  man  a-doing 

With  the  dicky  birds?" 
In  trooped  the  choir-boys  all  in  white, 

And  baby's  face  was  then 
A  study  that  no  brush  could  paint, 

No ;  neither  could  a  pen ; 
And  baby's  mamma's  face  took  on 

A  brilliant  hue  of  red 
As  baby  said :   "Look,  mamma ! 

Little  boys  all  going  to  bed !" 

Of  course,  when  all  stood  up  to  sing, 

Then  baby  stood  up,  too, 
Perched  high  upon  a  hassock, 

To  command  a  better  view. 
She  had  to  have  a  hymn-book, 

And  made  poor  mamma  frown; 
For,  when  the  place  was  found  for  her, 

She  turned  it  upside  down. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

A  lengthy  sermon  now  began; 

She  glanced  the  books  all  o'er, 
And  longed  so  much  to  gather  them, 

And  play  at  "keeping  store." 
But  the  sermon  wearied  baby  so, 

Her  eyes  they  ceased  to  roam, 
And  a  plaintive  voice  said:   "I'se  so  tired; 

Please,  mamma,  take  me  home." 


WHAT  BOYS  AND  GIELS  AEE  MADE  OF. 

LITTLE  boy  was  talking  to  a  pretty  little  maid, 
And  the  matter  was  of  import  and  of  weight. 
The  discussion  took  a  turn  from  which  we 

much  can  learn, 
If  we  study  it  and  then  investigate. 
The  little  girl  had  said  that  she'd  heard,  or  somewhere 

read, 

That  the  things  which  constitute  a  little  miss, 
From  the  bottom  of  her  toes  to  her  airy,  fairy  nose 
Were  ingredients  fashioned  somewhat  after  this: 

Sugar  and  spice,  things  lovely  and  nice,  candy  and  cara 
mels,  too; 

Sunbeams'  rays  from  bright  golden  days,  and  roses  all  wet 
with  dew. 

Peaches  and  cream,  and  love's  own  dream,  likewise  come  to 
the  aid  of 

Dame  Nature  old,  when  the  compound's  rolled,  of  which, 
little  girls  are  made  of. 

Then  the  little  boy's  blue  eyes  somewhat  expressed  surprise, 
And  from  his  looks  perhaps  'twould  be  inferr'd 

He'd  a  most  decided  doubt  in  his  little  mind  about 
The  truth  of  what  he  recently  had  heard. 


102  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Though  he  did  not  quite  dissent;  yet  still,  of  course,  he 
meant 

His  sex's  cause  to  then  and  there  uphold, 
So  what  constitutes  a  boy,  with  proper  manly  joy, 

His  little  lips  with  eloquence  now  told. 

A  heart  of  gold,  a  lion  so  bold,  an  eagle  on  the  wing, 

Spice  of  the  East,  honey,  at  least,  enough  for  the  feast  of 
a  king. 

The  whole  earth's  dower  of  strength  and  power,  for  noth 
ing  is  he  afraid  of; 

Beauty  and  health,  and  love  and  wealth — that's  what  little 
boys  are  made  of. 

She  heard  somewhat  dismayed,  as  these  compounds  were 
arrayed, 

But  she  questioned  not,  nor  did  she  try  to  check. 
But,  a  little  later  on,  he  chanced  to  light  upon 

Some  insect  strange,  and  placed  it  on  her  neck. 
And,  oh — a  scene  ensued,  for  a  sudden  storm  had  brewed; 

Indignantly  she  shook  her  golden  curls, 
And  right  then  we  learned  from  both,  what  constitutes  the 

growth 
Of  those  funny  things  called  little  boys  and  girls. 

Toads  and  frogs,  and  queer  puppy  dogs,  mice  and  owls  and 

bats. 
All  things  that  creep  and  make  you  weep,  lizards,  worms 

and  cats. 
Vinegar,  snails,  tarantulas'  tails  and  things  we're  much 

afraid  of; 
Mosquitoes,  rats,  tin-cans  and  old  hats — little  boys  and 

girls  are  made  of.  ' 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  1Q3 


SQUASH ! ! ! 

LD  Uncle  Kube,  way  down  in  Maine,  had  never  had 

no  luck 

At  raising  any  fancy  sort  of  vegetable  truck. 
With  corn  an'  hogs,  an'  such  like  things;  well, 

he  would  just  allow, 

No  critter  lived  in  this  broad  land  to  touch  him  anyhow. 
But  tomaters,  'taters,  and  the  like,  that  most  folks  have  on 

hand, 
He  couldn't  raise  the  things  for  shucks,  an'  mostly  bought 

'em  canned ; 
But,  one  day  in  his  garden  patch,  he  saw,  and  yelled  "Je- 

hosh !" 

There,  glowin'   in  the    mornin'   sun,   a  glorious  golden 
squaeh. 

His  good  wife  heard  the  shoutin',  and  swift  to  the  garden 

hied, 

And  there  upon  the  ground,  to  her  astonishment,  espied 
The  primest,  finest,  biggest  golden  squash  that  ever  grew, 
An'  she  no  sooner  knew  of  it  than  all  Maine  knew  it,  too. 
The  news    it  spread  like  wild-fire,  and  folks  for  miles 

around 
All  rushed  to  view  the    yellow  beauty  nestlin'   on  the 

ground ; 
And  Uncle  Rube  swelled  out  with  pride,  and  said :  "Look 

here,  by  gosh, 
I  ain't  much  on  tomaters,  but  I  beat  the  world  on  squash." 

A  mystery  'twas  to  Uncle  Eube  just  how  that  ol'  squash 

grew; 
He'd  tried  to  raise  'em  all  his  life,  a  hundred  times  or 

two, 


104  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

But  the  more  he  dug  an7  coaxed,  and  tried,  the  less  success 

he  had, 

Till  he  just  quit  in  sheer  disgust,  an'  went  off  hoppin'  mad. 
And  now,  without  no  tendin',  no  fixin/  and  no  care, 
He'd  raised  a  squash  that  made  Creation  hump  itself  an' 

stare. 

A  dinner  then  he  vowed  he'd  give,  and  cut  a  mighty  splosh, 
And  invite  all  the  folks  around,  to  help  him  eat  that 

squash. 

The  invites  they  were  all  sent  out,  the  peparations  made, 
An'  uncle  Keuben's  wife,  to  market  sundry  trips  essayed. 
And  lovingly  did  uncle  Eube  his  golden  treasure  view, 
As  Nature  painted  it  each  morn  a  deeper  golden  hue. 
An'  folks  went  in  for  fastin',  so  that  on  th'  eventful  day 
Ten  pounds  of  squash  an'  turkey  each  could  nicely  stow 

away ; 
Then  uncle  Reuben  'lowed  again,  from  Maine  way  to  Osh- 

kosh, 
There  never  yet  was  seen  the  like  of  that  jim-dandy  squash. 

Now  dawned  the  day  of  days  that  was  to  see  the  sumptuous 

feast, 
An'  as  the  streaks  of  rosy  light  were  glimmering  in  the 

East, 

Up  bright  an'  early  uncle  Rube  arose,  an'  took  his  knife, 
An'  sallied  to  the  garden  patch,  to  take  the  squash's  life. 
Keen  was  the  blade  and  strong  his  grasp,  an'  swiftly  beat 

his  heart, 
As  now  he  reached  the  precious  spot  an'  backward  gave  a 

start. 
"Murder !  Thieves ! !  Police ! ! !  he  yelled.    "Great  snakes ! 

oh  lor*,  by  gosh !" 
Some  thund'rin'  gol  darn  thief  has  been  an'  stole  the  gosh 

blame  squash," 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  1Q5 


KICKS   IN   THE   KITCHEN. 

HE  utensils  kicked  in  the  kitchen 

At  the  way  they  were  overworked, 
And  they  formed  a  labor  union, 
And  each  their  duties  shirked. 
Then  Bridget  berated  them  soundly, 

And  for  the  kettle  she  made  a  grab, 
When  it  promptly  steamed, 
While  the  frying-pan  screamed : 
"Scab!  Scab!!  Scab!!! 


SERIOUS  POEMS. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  1Q9 


SERIOUS   POEMS. 

WHERE   ARE   ALL   THE    OLD   BOYS? 

HERE  are  all  the  Old  Boys  ?  Where  are  the  dear 

Old  Boys, 
Who  shared  those  glorious  school-days  with  all 

their  boisterous  joys ; 
Who  drank  deep  draughts  at  Wisdom's  fount  of  knowledge 

undefiled, 
And  shook  the  earth  with  shouts  of  mirth,  while  blue  skies 

ever  smiled? 
Oh!  gladsome,  happy  old  school  chums,  to  what  spheres 

have  you  flown? 
In  these  sad  times,  what  lands  and  climes  now  claim  you 

as  their  own? 

Ye  stars  above,  oh!  tell  me,  answer,  ye  zephyrs  rare. 
Oh!   Where  are    all  the   Old   Boys,   and   echo   answers 
"where?" 

Oh !  Where  are  all  the  Old  Boys  ?    You'll  find  them  if  you 

come 

And  view  the  starry  banner,  and  mark  where'er  the  drum. 
With  throbbing  beat  is  calling  Columbia's  sons  to  arms, 
And  the  very  earth  is  trembling  with  the  battle's  wild 

alarms. 
Where'er  the  fight  is  fiercest  with  the  shriek  of  shot  and 

shell ; 

Wherever  blood  runs  freest,  and  all  resembles  hell ; 
AVhere  hopes  forlorn  are  to  be  led,  or  there's  a  death  to 

dare 
The  Old  Boys  you  will  find  them.    You'll  find  the  Old  Boys 

there. 


HO  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Oh!   Where  are  all  the  Old  Boys?    Look  down  upon  the 

Veldt, 
Where  sky  and  earth,  in  purple  haze,  like  molten  metals 

melt; 

Where  mother  Earth  is  storing  her  hoard  of  precious  gold, 
And  none  can  wrest  it  from  her,  save  he  who's  strong  and 

bold. 

Look  to  Alaska's  fastness  of  solitude  and  ice; 
Look  'cross  the  blue  Pacific  to  the  lands  of  palm  and  spice, 
Where  fickle  Fortune's  to  be  wooed  for  smiles  so  few  and 

rare; 
The  Old  Boys  you  will  find  them.    You'll  find  the  Old  Boys 

there. 

Where'er  America's  glorious  flag  majestically  waves 
Its  sheltering  folds,  and  savage  lands  from  heathen  dark 
ness  saves, 
Where  awful  plague  and  pestilence  are  wrestled  with  and 

fought, 
Where  val'rous  deeds  by  flood  and  field  are  daily  to  be 

wrought, 

Where  Pagan  races  piteously  cry  out  for  Light  and  Grace, 
Where  sacrifice  of  self  is  asked,  and  Death  met  face  to  face, 
Where  suffring  man  for  succor  calls,  and  there's  a  cross 

to  bear, 

The  Old  Boys  you  will  find  them.  You'll  find  the  Old  Boys 
there. 

Where  burning  suns  scorch  up  the  earth,  and  blister  Na 
ture's  face, 

Where  jungle,  swamp  and  tropic  growth  stretch  into  distant 
space, 

Where  mighty  rivers  madly  race  toward  the  distant  deeps, 

Eise  little  mounds  of  stone  that  mark  the  spot  where  some 
one  sleeps. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

Oh !     attered  over  all  the  earth,  in  distant  solitudes, 
Where  Nature  ever  scorns  to  be,  save  in  her  fiercest  moods, 
Those  lonesome  mounds  are  heaving  in  the  fever-laden  air, 
Our  Old  Boys  'neath  them  sleeping.    You'll  find  the  Old 
Boys  there. 

Yes;  scattered  to  the  four  winds,  gone  where?    God  only 

knows ! 

Beneath  the  blistering  sun-god,  or  blinding  Arctic  snows. 
Still  gone,  and  gone  forever.    Let's  drop  no  idle  tear; 
We,  too,  must  follow  like  them — for  none  can  linger  here. 
Save  for  the  fleeting  moments  the  rolling  years  unfold, 
The  "new  boy"  that  we  greet  to-day,  to-morrow  is  the 

"old/' 
But  in  a  land  they're  gathering,  a  land  that's  blest  and 

fair; 
Beyond  the  skies  we'll  meet  them.     We'll  meet  the  Old 

Boys  there. 


i 


"THE    CHRISTMAS    OF   '92." 
(The  Actor's  Story.) 

SHALL  never  forget  the  Christmas, 

The  Christmas  of  Ninety-two; 
I  was  sick  out  West  in  a  hospital, 

With  no  chance  of  pulling  through ; 
I'd  been  on  the  road  but  a  month  or  so, 

When  I  suddenly  came  down  sick ; 
And,  though  weak  as  a  rat,  and  suff' ring  much, 
I  stuck  to  my  work  like  a  brick. 


112  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

But  a  time  there  comes,  when  you've  got  to  give  up— 
When  courage  no  longer  will  do, 

And  one  night  on  the  stage  I  staggered  and  fell, 
And  that  was  the  last  I  knew 

Till  I  woke  next  day  in  a  hospital, 
And  woke  up,  alas !  to  find 

The  company  folks  had  all  gone  ahead, 
While  I  was  left  sick,  behind. 

It  nigh  broke  my  heart  when  I  realized 

The  pitiful  plight  I  was  in. 
I  hadn't  had  time  to  put  by  a  cent, 

And  my  purse  it  was  terribly  thin, 
But  under  my  pillow  a  note  I  found ; 

And,  ere  it  was  half  read  through, 
The  tears — well,  they  trickled  all  down  my  cheeks, 

And  I  didn't  know  what  to  do. 
The  boys  had  chipped  in,  and  raised  quite  a  sum, 

And  the  letter,  it  went  on  and  told 
How  they  hoped  I'd  soon  be  up  and  around. 

God  bless  'em,  'twas  better  than  gold. 
I  turned  on  my  side  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way, 

When  my  eyes,  by  accident,  fell 
On  a  note  addressed  to  Jack  Barnes,  Esquire. 

In  a  second  I  knew  'twas  from  Nell. 

Sweet  Helen  Boyd  was  our  leading  soubrette, 

A  girl  that  was  simply  sublime. 
I  loved  her  at  sight,  but  said  not  a  word, 

Though  she  knew  it,  I  guess,  all  the  time. 
I  learned  from  the  nurse,  when  the  boys  brought  me  in, 

That  Nell  was  right  there  by  my  side, 
And  when  they  all  bade  me  a  silent  adieu, 

Nell  kissed  me,  and  broke  down  and  cried. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  113 

Oh,  the  joy  of  those  words,  and,  sick  as  I  was, 

I  felt  my  heart  dancing  with  mirth, 
And  places  I  wouldn't  for  millions  have  changed 

With  all  the  crowned  monarchs  on  earth. 
"Dear  Mr.  Barnes" — Just  a  short,  friendly  note, 

But  what  kept  me  all  night  wide  awake, 
Was  the  little  "P.  S."  she  put  at  the  end, 

"Get  well,  if  you  can,  for  my  sake." 

Oh,  the  agony  grim  of  those  terrible  weeks 

For  typhoid  is  far  from  a  joke ; 
Never  a  friend  to  cheer  with  a  smile, 

Far — far  from  kindred  and  folk. 
'Twas  agony,  yes,  but  think  of  the  joy, 

When  at  last  I  began  to  get  well, 
And  could  lie  there  and  weave  most  exquisite  dreams 

And  in  Paradise  wander  with  Nell. 
But  the  horrible  thought,  it  would  haunt  me  at  times. 

Maybe  I  had  passed  from  her  mind; 
That  pity  alone  might  have  caused  her  to  write. 

And  then,  too,  no  doubt,  she  would  find 
New  faces  to  make  her  forget  about  me. 

The  thought  brought  the  tortures  of  hell, 
And  I  wished  that  the  fever  had  carried  me  off, 

And  never  had  let  me  get  well. 

It  was  Christmas  Day  in  the  hospital, 

And  it  fell  on  a  Sunday,  too. 
My  money  had  vanished,  and  everything  gone, 

And  I  felt  despondent  and  blue ; 
I  was  thinking  of  home  and  those  far  away — 

You  know  how  a  fellow  will  dwell 
On  thoughts  like  to  that,  when  a  voice  it  said  "Jack !" 

And  there  by  my  side  stood  Nell ! 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

I  thought  'twas  a  vision,  but  'twas  Nell  sure  enough, 

And  she  put  her  dear  f  ace*down  to  mine ; 
The  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  proffered  her  lips. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  that  kiss — divine. 
And  Nell  held  my  hand,  and  told  me  the  news — 

The  Comp'ny  was  just  passing  through. 
"I  got  leave  to  miss  just  a  train,  Jack,"  she  said, 

"And  came  to  spend  Christmas  with  you." 

"Get  well,  dear  old  boy,"  she  said,  e'er  she  left; 

"Get  well  just  as  quick  as  you  can. 
Your  part — I  fixed  it  with  Manager  Jones — 

Is  yours,  for  the  other  new  man 
We  got  in  your  place,  his  acting  is  vile. 

So  give  that  old  bed,  dear,  the  shake, 
And  come  back  and  join  us,  Jack  dear,  once  moi  e ; 

Ah,  do,  laddie  dear,  for  my  sake — 
For  it's  terribly  lonely  without  you,  boy, 

I've  missed  you,  I  can't  tell  you  how." 
Then  she  put  her  dear  head  once  more  down  to  mine, 

And  the  angels  above  heard  a  vow 
That  when  I  was  well,  and  our  season  was  o'er, 

We'd  link  both  our  fortunes  in  life, 
And  Nell  murmured  "Husband"  ere  parting  from  me- 

While  I  whispered  tenderly,  "Wife." 

Ah !  many  a  Christmas  has  now  passed  away, 

Since  the  Christmas  of  Ninety-two, 
But  that  is  the  Christmas  I  love  best  of  all, 

And  will,  till  life's  over  and  through, 
For  it  gave  me  my  Nell,  the  best  little  girl 

That  ever  drew  breath  in  the  world ; 
It  gave  me  the  rosy-cheeked,  golden-haired  lass, 

Whose  arms  'round  my  neck  now  are  curled; 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  115 

It  gave  me  back  health,  and  that  brought  me  wealth; 

It  pointed  the  pathway  to  fame. 
That  sickness,  a  blessing  it  was  in  disguise ; 

And  God,  you  see's  good,  just  the  same. 
And  the  dear,  loving  eyes  now  smiling  at  me, 

So  winsome  and  winning  and  true, 
In  my  heart  still  hold  sway,  as  on  that  blest  day, 

The  Christmas  of  "Ninety-two." 


LITTLE   MAID   WITH   THE   LAUGHING   EYES. 


EAR  little  maid  with  the  laughing  eyes, 
Putting  to  blush  the  blue  of  the  skies, 
Gazing  entranced  on  a  world  so  fair, 
Never  a  trouble  and  never  a  care ; 
Ah,  what  a  pity ;  ah,  lack-a-day, 
You  cannot  remain  as  you  are  alway. 

Dear  little  maid  with  the  laughing  eyes, 

Looking  at  us  in  sweet  surprise, 

Soon  the  years  o'er  your  head  will  have  rolled, 

Silvering  white  your  locks  of  gold ; 

Merciless  Time,  your  chariot  stay, 

And  let  fair  youth  linger  here  alway. 

Sweet  little  maid  with  the  laughing  eyes, 
Care  in  the  future  for  each  there  lies ; 
Eevel  in  youth  with  its  golden  dreams, 
Drift  down  Fairyland's  mystic  streams — 
Care-free  and  happy,  joyous  and  gay; 
Sad  'tis  we  cannot  be  young  alway. 


116  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 


THE  BOY  WHO  TALKED  AND  THE  BOY  WHO 

DID. 

LOQUENT  James  was  his  father's  pride, 
Great  things  were  predicted  for  him. 
His  fame  it  was  blazoned  both  far  and  wide, 

And  everyone  raved  about  Jim. 
But  Jim's  brother  John  was  a  silent  youth, 

'Twas  seldom  he  had  much  to  say ; 
He  gloried  in  honor,  in  work,  and  in  truth, 

And  quietly  went  on  his  way. 
But  a  crowd  of  folks  'round  Jim  ever  hung, 
For  they  seemed  quite  enraptured  to  hear 
This  wonderful  youth  with  the  voluble  tongue, 

Whose  voice  rang  impassioned  and  clear 
As  he  talked,  and  talked,  eternally  talked 

Of  his  plans,  ambitions,  and  aims, 
And  'round  like  a  peacock  strutted  and  walked 
This  wonderful  orator,  James. 

While  Jim  talked  on,  in  his  masterful  way, 

Of  what  he  was  going  to  do, 
John  bravely  toiled  through  the  heat  of  the  day 

With  his  own  and  Jim's  work  to  do. 
For  if  one  but  talks,  then  his  share  of  the  work, 

And  I  think  this  plain  to  us  all, 
Must  pass  from  the  one  who  does  nothing  but  shirk, 

On  the  back  of  a  brother  to  fall. 
When  work  needed  doing,  Jim's  voice  it  was  raised, 

As  he  lazily  lolled  in  the  sun, 
And  ere  his  advice  had  been  passed  on  and  praised, 

John  had  the  work  over  and  done. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  117 

On  memory's  tablet  this  fact  should  be  chalked, 

For  the  fact  can  no  longer  be  hid, 
That  James  was  the  boy  who  looked  on  and  talked, 

While  John,  he  accomplished  and  did. 

A  troublesome  mortgage  hung  over  the  farm — 

Threats  came,  it  would  soon  be  foreclosed ; 
The  outlook  was  dark,  and  viewed  with  alarm ; 

Jim  protested,  orated,  and  posed. 
Of  mankind's  injustice  he'd  rave  by  the  hour, 

At  capital  fiercely  he'd  scoff, 
While  John  seemed  inspired  with  additional  power, 

And  soon  he  had  paid  the  thing  off. 
Folks  now  realized  how  foolish  they'd  been, 

And  eloquent  James  they  ignored ; 
They  saw  he  was  naught  but  a  talking-machine, 

Henceforth  it  was  John  they  adored. 
For,  though  sounding  phrases  may  dazzle  awhile, 

If  to  fame  and  success  you  would  mount, 
Fortune  alone  on  true  effort  will  smile ; 

For,  with  man  and  God,  deeds  only  count ! 


RELIGIOUS. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 


"GOD   KNOWS    BEST!" 

EEMEMBEE  the  time,  in  my  earlier  days,  when  I 

used  to  be  worried  in  mind 
O'er   the  way   that  God   had   of   directing   the 

spheres,  and  ruling  o'er  all  human  kind ; 
I  would  think  over  this,  and  study  o'er  that,  for  'twas  all 

a  great  myst'ry  to  me, 
And  then  I'd  decide  that  God's  ways  they  were  not  just  all 

that  God's  ways  ought  to  be. 
Impetuous  youth  it  will  question;  aye,  yes!  and  even,  at 

times,  'twill  condemn 
The  ways  of  the  great  Jehovah  himself,  though  his  ways 

are  beyond  mortal  ken ; 
But,  ah !  when  the  years  they  have  ripened  the  mind,  and 

life's  evening  shadows  they  fall, 

Then  we're  free  to  confess,  as  we  ask  God  to  bless,  that 
'twas  He  who  knew  best,  after  all. 

I  have  looked  in  the  eyes  of  an  agonized  wife,  as  a  wee,  lit 
tle  life  ebbed  away; 

I  have  felt  in  my  breast  the  turmoil  and  strife,  as  we  gazed 
on  the  poor,  silent  clay; 

I  have  felt  fierce  rebellion  sweep  up  in  my  soul,  as  I 
yearned  for  that  little  one's  kiss, 

And  I've  said,  as  the  tears  down  my  cheeks  'gan  to  roll, 
"Could  a  merciful  God  have  done  this?" 

But,  ah !  when  the  first  throb  of  anguish  was  past,  when 
the  wounds  were  less  jagged  and  sore, 

I  thought  of  that  babe  in  the  bright  world  above,  an  angel 
of  God's  evermore. 


122  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

"For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven/'  Christ  said,  then 

the  wife  to  my  side  I  would  call, 
And  I'd  point  to  the  skies,  and  we'd  both  dry  our  eyes,  for 

'twas  God  who  knew  best,  after  all. 

I  have  seen  this  man  rise,  and  that  one  ascend,  to  affluence, 

fortune  and  fame, 
And  I've  envied  the  friends  I  knew  in  my  youth,  who  have 

made  for  themselves  quite  a  name; 
And  I  thought  God  was  harsh  that  he'  willed  I  should  toil, 

while  others  around  lived  at  ease — 
The  full  cup  of  fortune  was  theirs  first  to  drink,  while  I'd 

naught  to  drain  but  the  lees. 
But  now  I  can  see,  in  the  evening  of  life,  as  I  follow  God's 

methods  divine, 
That  not  one  of  the  lives  I  envied  so  much  has  been  ^blessed 

so  completely  as  mine; 
And  I  would  not  change  places  with  one  of  the  friends  of 

those  envious  days  I  recall, 
Which  makes  it  quite  plain,  all  over  again,  that  it's  God 

who  knows  best,  after  all. 

As  now  I  look  back  o'er  the  years  of  my  life,  and  pass  ev'ry 
one  in  review, 

And  weigh  up  its  pleasures,  its  cares  and  its  strife,  as  a 
man  bowed  with  years  oft  will  do, 

I  can  see  how  I  wronged  the  Almighty  above  when  I  ques 
tioned  His  mandates  divine, 

And  I'm  glad  I  was  led  through  the  years  by  His  love,  re 
gardless  of  wishes  of  mine, 

For  I  could  not  foresee  where  ambition  would  lead,  as  I 
yearned  above  others  to  climb ; 

But  ambition  is  oft  but  a  cloak  for  mere  greed,  and  God 
could  foresee  all  the,  time. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  123 

And  not  one  single  thing  the  Almighty  has  done  would  I 

alter,  no  matter  how  small; 
From  beginning  to  end,  I've  had  God  a<?  a  friend,  and  'twas 

He  who  knew  best,  after  all. 

It  has  ever  been  thus,  and  'twill  ever  be  thus,  in  the  Al 
mighty's  wonderful  plan ; 
The  Father  all  wise,  in  His  home  in  the  skies,  knows  what's 

best  for  the  children  of  man ; 
When  the  grief's  hard  to  bear,  ,our  heart-strings  may  tear, 

and  dazed  we  may  be  by  the  blow, 
But  'twill  all  be  made  plain,  let  that  ease  your  pain,  and 

the  reason  we  some  day  shall  know. 
When  our  patience  God  tries,  ah !  don't  criticize,  but  with 

meekness  bow  down  to  His  will, 
For  whate'er  may  betide,  Christ  still  doth  abide,  and  God, 

He  our  Father  is  still; 
Just  do  what  is  right,  keep  your  faith  ever  bright,  for  not 

even  a  sparrow  doth  fall, 
But  in  Heaven  'tis  known,  so  let's  joyfully  own,  that  God 

knoweth  best,  after  all. 


<GOD  WILL  TAKE  CAEE  OF  ME." 

ANY  a  year  has  winged  its  flight  since  mother 

passed  away ; 
Many  a  year,  but  ever  near,  still  seems  that 

solemn  day 
When  down  I  knelt  and  gently  felt  the  hand  so  frail  and 

white, 

And  gazed  into  those  eyes  anew,  now  lit  with  Heaven's  own 
light. 


124  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

The  silence  broke  when  mother  spoke,  'twas  but  a  whis 
pered  word, 

But,  oh,  how  oft  those  words  so  soft,  my  inmost  soul  have 
stirred. 

"We'll  meet  again,"  she  said,  "where  pain  and  sorrow  can 
not  be ; 

Your  eyes  are  wet,  John,  dear;  don't  fret,  God  will  take 
care  of  me !" 

I  wasn't  just  the  best  of  boys,  I  wasn't  just  the  worst ; 
But  when  those  words  fell  on  my  ears,  my  tears  in  torrents 

burst. 

I  realized  that  all  I  prized,  and  held  most  dear  in  life, 
Would  soon  depart;  it  broke  my  heart,  and  cut  me  like  a 

knife. 
I  saw  the  blank,  the  awful  blank,  if  Providence  should 

make 

Me  motherless,  and  my  distress  caused  her  again  to  take 
My  hand  and  say :  "John,  work  and  pray ;  be  honest,  brave 

and  true ; 
Just  learn  to  love  the  One  above,  and  He'll  take  care  of 

you!" 

On  roll  the  years.    List  to  those  cheers,  mark  that  brave 

line  of  blue; 
'Tis  hard,  I  know,  but  I  must  go;  the  old  flag  needs  me, 

too. 
"We're  coming,  Father  Abraham!"    Oh!  wife,  dear,  heed 

that  song, 
'And  it  will  make  your  courage  wake,  your  heart  beat  true 

and  strong. 
The  babe's  asleep ;  once  more  I'll  creep  and  kiss  him — then 

farewell. 
Just  one  brave  smile  to  cheer  me  while  I  face  the  shot  and 

shell. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  125 

The  long  day  through,  my  thoughts  to  you  will  turn  so  ten 
derly. 

Wipe  that  deax  eye ;  be  brave,  don't  cry ;  God  will  take  care 
of  me. 


By  camp-fire    bright,  these  lines  I  write;  for,  ah,  my 

thoughts  will  roam, 

After  the  strife,  to  you,  dear  wife,  and  our  beloved  home. 
A  year  has  gone,  the  old  flag's  torn,  but  still  floats  proudly 

o'er 

The  shattered  host,  now  but  a  ghost  of  what  it  was  of  yore. 
The  live-long  day  the  bloody  fray  has  swept  from  side  to 

side. 
The  North  and  South  at  cannon's  mouth;  let  Gettysburg 

decide 
Which  cause  shall  win.    Ere  I  turn  in,  these  lines  I  write, 

I  see 
You  all  so  clear;  don't  worry,  dear,  God  will  take  care  of 

me! 


Once  more  the  roar  of  guns  sweep  o'er  the  valley  and  the 

plain, 
And  far  and  near  the  ringing  cheer  sweeps  up  in  vict'ry's 

train. 
"The  boys  are  home !"  the  very  dome  of  heaven  with  joy  is 

rent, 
And  heads  are  bare  when  muttered  prayer  breathes  out  a 

heart's  content. 
Two  eyes  seek  mine,  two  eyes  that  shine  with  love;  ah, 

words  are  tame 
To  tell  the  bliss  when  wee  lips  kiss  my  cheek,  and  lisp  my 

name. 


126  tJNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Ah,  me !  that  night,  what  rapt  delight,  with  babe  upon  my 

knee, 
And  wife  at  rest  upon  my  breast ! — God  did  take  care  of 

me. 

If  I  but  glide  on  mem'ry's  tide;  ah,  then  can  I  supply 
A  thousand  instances  to  show  how  Providence  is  nigh, 
To  shield  from  foes,  and  guard  all  those  who  put  their  f aitli 

and  trust 

In  one  Great  God  Omnipotent,  all  merciful  and  just, 
'Tis  not  for  long,  ah,  soon  the  song,  the  blessed  angels  sing 
In  brighter  spheres,  will  greet  my  ears  as  Heavenward  I 

wing. 
When  back  are  rolled  the  Gates  of  Gold,  I'll  cry:    "Ah, 

mother,  see ! 
I'm  here  at  last,  all  sorrows  past,  God  did  take  care  of 

me!" 


THE    PASSING    OF   THE    OLD    CHURCH. 

HEY  want  to  close  the  old  church,  and  build  them 

one  that's  new, 
And  soon  its  days  of  glory  will  have  faded  from 

our  view. 
No  longer  will  its  walls  resound  to  hymns  of  praise  and 

prayer, 
And  naught  but  mem'ries  will  remain  of  precious  worship 

there. 

No  more  its  loud  hosannas  will  heavenward  ascend ; 
For,  like  all  things  on  earth,  alas!  it,  too,  must  have  an 

end. 
'Tis  out  of  date  and  style,  they  say — at  least  the  young 

folks  do — 

So  they  want  to  close  the  old  church,  and  build  them  one 
that's  new. 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  12? 

"Out  of  date  and  out  of  style  ?"    Why,  once  we  thought  it 

grand, 

And  not  a  church  to  equal  it  existed  in  the  land ; 
And  we  scarce  could  muster  patience  when  traveling  folks 

came  home 
And  raved  of  London's  Abbey  and  St.  Peter's  there  in 

Eome. 
There  were  grander,  bigger  churches — yes,  that  we'd  freely 

own, 
But  we  felt  that  ours  was  nearer  to  the  Father's  Great 

White  Throne, 
That  its  prayers  were  answered  quicker,  and  more  grace 

and  blessings  drew, 
Than  any  other  church  on  earth,  be  that  church  old  or  new. 

Fourscore  long  years  have  passed  away  since  first  to  church 
-  I  came, 

And  here  alone,  in  all  the  world,  things  still  are  much  the 
same. 

The  same  old  "Kock  of  Ages"  rings  out  inspiringly, 

And  "Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul,"  "'Nearer,  my  God,  to 

,      Thee," 

Have  yet  the  old-time  sweetness  so  full  of  trust  and  love ; 

And  they  seem  to  lift  my  very  soul  to  mansions  up  above, 

As  I  stand  right  up  and  sing  them  in  our  old  family  pew. 

Ah!  they'll  never  sound  like  that  again  in  any  church 
that's  new. 

Ah !  well  can  I  remember  when  mother  took  my  hand 

And  led  me  first  to  our  old  church,  which,  like  the  prom 
ised  land, 

Stretched  out  before  my  wond'ring  gaze,  and  still  I  feel  the 
awe 

That  fell  upon  my  childish  soul  when  first  God's  house  I 
saw. 


128  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

The  hassock  mother  knelt  upon  is  in  the  same  old  place; 
The  Bible's  there,  all  stained  with  tears  that  fell  from  her 

dear  face; 

And  here  it  was  we  bade  her  soul  that  solemn  last  adieu. 
Ah !  leave  me  but  the  old  church,  and  you  can  have  the 

new. 

Within  these  walls  I  first  received  the  blessed  broken  bread, 
And  took  the  cup  in  memory  of  the  precious  life-blood 

shed, 
And  supped  with  Him  who  said :    "Do  this  in  memory  of 

Me," 

That  I  might  live  eternal!)7,  and  from  all  sin  be  free. 
JTwas  here  I  felt  the  meaning  of  a  purer,  holier  life; 
'Twas  here  the  solemn  words  were  said  which  gave  to  me  a 

wife, 
And  here,  at  last,  we  breathed  a  prayer,  when  her  soul  to 

heav'n  flew. 
Ah !  her  spirit  haunts  the  old  church ;  don't  tell  me  of  the 

new. 

'Twas  here  I  brought  my  little  ones,  to  train  them  in  the 
way 

That  leads  from  this  dim  shadow-land  to  realms  of  bright 
est  day. 

Here,  too,  they  broke  the  "Bread  of  Life,"  and  up  there  in 
the  choir 

Their  voices  rose  in  hymns  of  praise  that  mounted  high 
and  higher, 

And  soared  right  up  to  heaven's  gate ;  ah  !  how  my  soul  was 
stirred, 

For  God,  I  knew,  inspired  that  song,  and  he  surely  must 
have  heard, 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  129 

For  angels  took  the  song  to  him — and  took  the  singers, 

•    too — 
And  all  that's  left  '&  the  old  church — I  ne'er  could  love  a 

>   new. 

"Pis  sad  to  think  the  dear  old  church  will  crumble  and 

decay, 

To  live  no  more  but  as  a  dream  that  comes  at  close  of  day. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  very  part  of  God's  eternal  shore ; 
A  spot  that  Great  Jehovah  threw  his  shelt'ring  mantle  o'er ; 
A  mighty  Rock  of  Ages  in  the  shifting  sands  of  time, 
Where  storms  of  doubt  and  change  might  break,  but  ne'er 

its  base  could  climb. 

And  so  my  heart  in  sadness  now  sends  up  a  human  cry 
That  the  things  I  deemed  immortal,  alas !  must  droop  and 

die. 

So,  brethren,  do  not  take  from  me  the  only  link  that's  left 

'Twixt  earth  and  heaven  of  mem'ries  sad  and  sweet  to  one 
bereft, 

Who  oft  has  prayed  that  Time  would  pass  this  spot,  so 
sacred,  by 

And  let  me  worship  in  this  house  in  peace  until  I  die. 

But  if,  alas !  'tis  not  to  be,  and  the  dear  old  place  must  go, 

There's  one  blest  thought  sweet  comfort  brings,  thank  God ! 
•  it  helps  me  so — 

Though  church,  wife,  children  pass  away,  through  ail  eter 
nity 

The  dear,  good  God,  who  changes  not,  will  still  "abide  with 
me." 


130  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 


SUNDAY  IN  THE  OLD  CHURCH. 

H,  those  Sundays  in  the  old  church,  in  the  days  of 

long  ago, 
How  pleasantly  life's  placid  stream   unruffled 

used  to  flow. 

My  childish  soul  knew  nothing,  then,  of  '^higher  criti 
cism/' 

Of  practices  unorthodox,  and  other  kinds  of  schism. 
Just  simple,  childish,  lovely  faith  was  all  I  knew  so  pure. 
Ah,  sad  it  is ;  ah,  cruel  'tis,  such  faith  will  not  endure 
As  once  it  did  in  those  dear  days  by  memory  now  arrayed, 
When  we  sang  the  old  hymns  over,  and  the  pastor  preached 
and  prayed. 

God's  day  of  rest  a  haven  was  of  quiet  and  content, 

And  Nature  hushed  her  hum  of  noise,  and  acquiescence 

lent; 

For  Nature's  God  from  Sinai  had  issued  his  decree, 
And  holy  calm  fell  down  upon  the  meadow  and  the  lea. 
The  glorious  bells  their  tidings  glad  to  all  the  country 

tolled, 

And  called  belated  worshipers  to  gather  in  the  fold. 
And  once  within  that  fold  secure,  no  sheep  e'er  felt  afraid 
When  we  sang  the  old  hymns  over,  and  the  pastor  preached 

and  prayed. 

No  time  for  ceremonious  form,  though  all  was  reverent 

there — 
One  thought  alone  pervades  the  mind,  the  thought  of  praise 

and  prayer; 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  131 

No  ranks  of  surpliced  choristers  distract  the  mind  and  eye, 
But  each  one  sang  his  hymn  of  praise;  and,  as  it  rose  on 

high, 

A  glorious,  mighty  volume,  it  swept  about  God's  throne, 
To  blend  with  angel  voices,  as  though  it  was  their  own ; 
Then  rushed  with  light  and  gladness  hell's  darkness  to  in 
vade, 

When  we  sang  the  old  hymns  over,  and  the  pastor  preached 
and  prayed. 

I  see  the  grand  old  pastor,  with  radiant,  noble  face 

And  glorious  voice  that  never  tired  in  telling  of  the  grace 

That's  waiting  for  the  sinner  who  will  take  his  load  of 

care 
With  a  humble  and  a  contrite  heart  to  Christ  and  leave  it 

there. 

Oh,  blessed  words  of  comfort,  yet  never  half  so  sweet 
As  when  he  gently  led  you  to  God's  holy  mercy  seat, 
And  you  saw  heaven's  gate  wide  open,  and  its  glories  all 

displayed, 
When  we  sang  the  old  hymns  over,  and  the  pastor  preached 

and  prayed. 

"As  through  a  glass  now  darkly"  was  not  the  way  he  saw — 

His  glass  was  purest  crystal,  and  never  knew  a  flaw ; 

No  clouds  were  e'er  obscuring  heaven's  wonders  from  his 

eyes, 
For  God  to  him  had  given  the  faith  that  looks  beyond  the 

skies 
And  views  the  mansions  there  prepared  for  such  of  those 

who  love 

To  tread  the  path  the  Saviour  trod,  and  follow  Him  above. 
And  few,  indeed,  if  any,  from  that  narrow  pathway  strayed, 
When  we  sang  the  old  hymns  over,  and  the  pastor  preached 

and  prayed. 


132  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

If  e'er  he  condescended  to  acknowledge  doubt  or  fear, 
A  splendid  sight  our  pastor,  then,  it  was  to  see  and  hear. 
His  voice  rang  like  the  blast  that  shook  the  walls  of  Jeri 
cho, 

And  unbelief  and  scoffing  pride  were  routed  and  laid  low ; 
He  towered  like  a  giant,  his  eyes  flashed  scorn  and  fire, 
The  "God  of  Battles"  came  to  earth  his  efforts  to  inspire, 
And  the  hosts  of  sin  and  Satan  were  vanquished  and  dis 
mayed 

When  we  sang  the  old  hymns  over,  and  the  pastor  preached 
and  prayed. 

And  then  the  sword  avenging,  he  suddenly  would  sheathe, 
His  voice  to  wooing  whispers  sank,  a  smile  his  face  would 

wreathe. 
The  "God  of  Battles"  disappeared,  then  came  the  "God  of 

Love/' 
The  beauteous  Spirit  fluttering  down  in  semblance  of  a 

dove. 
Oh,  who  that  heard  could  then  resist  that  pleading,  loving 

tone; 
Oh,  who  would  not  take  up  that  cross,  and  bear  it  for  his 

own? 

Not  I,  nor  you,  we  heard  the  voice  and  willingly  obeyed, 
Singing  soft  the  old  hymns  over,  as  the  pastor  knelt  and 

prayed. 

Oh,  would  that  every  church  on  earth  were  like  that  one 
of  old, 

And  every  worn  and  weary  soul  at  rest  within  its  fold; 

And  would  their  earthly  shepherd  and  their  heavenly  Shep 
herd  true 

Were  like  the  ones  I  knew  of  old,  and  new  look  heaven 
ward  to! 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   PCEMS.  133 

His  kingdom  then  would  quickly  come  again,  upon  the 
earth, 

Mankind  with  one  accord  would  sing:  "One  Lord,  one 
Faith,  one  Birth," 

If  we  could  spread  that  living  grace  that  always  was  dis 
played 

When  we  sang  the  old  hymns  over,  and  the  pastor  preached 
and  prayed. 


"PREACH   JESUS    TO    ME." 

E'VE  got  a  new  minister  coming,  I  hear;  the 

old  one,  I'm  told  's  had  his  day. 
Too  old-fashioned  and  slow,  and  not  up  to 

date;  at  least  so  the  younger  folks  say, 
So  the  man  who's  grown  gray  in  the  service  of  God  forever 

aside  now  must  stand, 
While  a  youth  fresh  from  college,  with  brand-new  ideas, 

is  going  to  take  things  in  hand; 

And  we'll  hear  the  old  truths  told  over  again,  from  Gen 
esis  'way  down  to  Paul, 
And  told  in  the  latest  most  new-fangled  way,  so  that  no 

one  will  know  them  at  all. 
Well,  there's  this  much  I  know,  whoever  may  come,  and 

whoever  the  preacher  may  be, 

If  a  blessing  he  wants  from  this  old  heart  of  mine,  he's 
got  to  preach  Jesus  to  me ! 

The  old  style  of  preaching  the  Gospel  of  God,  with  elo 
quence  simple  and  strong, 

Repentance,  salvation,  through  Jesus  who  died,  they've  dis 
covered  at  last  is  all  wrong ; 


134  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

And,  instead,  we  have  lectures  on  various  things — political, 
social,  and  such — 

All  told  in  a  genteel,  half-hearted  way,  with  a  matter-of- 
fact  sort  of  touch, 

And  about  as  much  use  to  a  hungering  soul,  as  'twould  be 
if  you  gave  it  a  stone; 

All  food  for  the  mind,  for  the  spirit  and  heart,  must  be 
left  most  severely  alone; 

Not  a  word  in  the  whole  discourse  will  you  hear  of  the 
Cross  and  of  grim  Calvary. 

Well — such  kind  of  fare,  it  may  satisfy  some;  but  you've 
got  to  preach  Jesus  to  me. 

Ah,  me !  what  a  change  has  come  over  the  land,  from  the 

days  that  I  once  knew  of  old, 
When  the  good  pastor's  voice,  so  grand  and  inspired,  in 

sonorous  majesty  rolled, 
And  we  heard  the  old  story  of  God  and  his  love,  and  of 

Jesus,  the  Saviour  of  men, 
And  the  next  Sabbath  day,  with  the  same  eager  hearts,  we 

came  back  to  hear  it  again. 
We  never  grew  weary,  we  never  grew  tired,  of  that  tale  of 

God's  wonderful  love; 
Our  religion  we  drew  not  from  books  or  from  men,  but 

straight  from  the  Father  above, 
For  the  grace  that  He  gave  us  came  down  like  the  rain,  so 

plenteous,  so  full,  and  so  free, 
And  it's  that  blessed  grace  that  my  thirsty  soul  craves,  so 

preach  the  dear  Saviour  to  me. 

Ah !  in  those  good  old  days,  a  spade  was  a  spade ;  and  sin, 

it  was  nailed  down  as  sin; 
No  trimming  of  sails  to  suit  this  one  and  that,  but  the 

shafts  of  the  Gospel  sank  in 


UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS.  135 

The  wrong-doer's  heart,  and  rich  man  or  poor,  face  to  face, 
in  an  instant  was  brought 

With  the  terrible  price  the  sinner  must  pay  who  sets  God's 
commandments  at  naught. 

No  parleys  with  Sin,  temporizing  with  wrong,  but  heart- 
searching  within  and  without. 

Ah!  the  wonderful  faith  of  those  blessed  old  days,  with 
never  a  question  of  doubt; 

Just  the  Bible — God's  word  from  beginning  to  end — and 
to  those  precious  pages  I  flee, 

And  I  pick  out  the  texts  that  thrilled  me  with  joy,  when 
the  Saviour  was  first  preached  to  me. 

It's  all  very  well,  in  the  heyday  of  youth,  to  criticize,  ques 
tion,  discuss, 

But  to  those  who  have  reached  the  evening  of  life,  ah,  how 
different  it  all  is  with  us ! 

With  the  scythe  of  the  Eeaper  coming  daily  more  near, 
and  the  eyes  growing  dimmer  with  age, 

Oh !  don't  take  the  comfort  the  Holy  Book  gives,  as  we 
ponder  o'er  each  precious  page ; 

Oh !  take  not  away,  but  add,  if  you  can,  for  there's  nothing 
to  cheer  our  last  breath — 

No,  nothing  but  those  blessed  pages  to  help,  as  we  draw 
near  the  portals  of  death. 

Ah,  there's  naught  but  our  Lord  that  can  then  stand  be 
tween  our  souls  and  Eternity, 

So  give  me  the  light  of  God's  Gospel,  and  preach  Christ 
Jesus  the  Saviour  to  me. 

Preach  Jesus,  Him  only,  and  if  you'll  do  that,  there's  no 

other  topic  you'll  need; 
He  is  the  food  that  the  multitude  craves,  if  only  their 

voices  you'd  heed, 


136  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S    POEMS. 

For  the  world  it  is  hungry  for  some  one  to  come  and  arouse 
it  from  out  of  its  sleep, 

And  into  the  heavenly  garners  of  God,  a  harvest  of  souls 
you  will  reap. 

It  isn't  that  people  are  weary  of  church,  or  that  spiritual 
matters  have  tired, 

But  the  preachers  have  strayed  from  the  old  paths  of  faith, 
and  no  longer  are  thrilled  and  inspired. 

So  back  to  the  Cross  and  the  crucified  One,  and  oh !  glo 
rious  the  harvest  will  be, 

And  the  whole  world  will  ring  with  the  joy  of  the  saved — 
so  preach  Jesus  to  them  and  to  me. 


"COBBLER   JIM." 

OBBLER  JIM  was  happy  and  gay,  and  as  his  store 

you  passed, 
You'd  hear  his  voice  above  the  din  of  the"  blows 

that  fell  on  his  last. 
His  wasn't  a  voice  of  culture,  nor  was  it  a  voice  of  power, 
But  as  Jim  sat  at  his  bench  and  sang,  blithely  from  hour 

to  hour, 
His  song  would  blend  with  that  of  the  birds,  perched  in  the 

trees  close  by, 
And  it  seemed  as  together  they  sang,  the  man  and  the  bird 

would  try, 
Which  best  could  prove,  by  their  happy  notes,  that  whether 

at  work  or  play — 

God's  world  is  full  of  sunshine  and  bliss — the  man  at  his 
bench,  or  they. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  137 

You'll  ask  what  caused  the  cobbler's  joy,  and  what  inspired 

his  song 
With  that  note  of  perfect  happiness,  which  rang  the  whole 

day  long; 

What  was  it  gave  to  those  rugged  notes  a  tone  almost  di 
vine, 
And  made  them  seem  so  different  from  a  voice  like  yours 

and  mine; 
What  was  it  made  the  birds  join  in  whene'er  he  chanced  to 

sing, 

And  hover  in  the  branches  near  and  o'er  the  lintel  cling. 
The  answer's  clear,  the  answer's  plain,  and  all  is  due  to 

Him: 
The  God  who  gave  the  birds  their  song,  inspired  the  notes 

of  Jim. 

Time  was  when  Jim  was  a  ne'er-do-well,  and  never  a  note 

he  sang 
Unless  strong  drink  inflamed  his  blood,  and  then  the  tavern 

rang 
With  a  flood  of  ribald  melody,  at  once  both  coarse  and 

rude; 
Then,  with  an  oath,  he  staggered  home  in  a  mean  and  ugly 

mood; 

Then  trouble  came  and  sickness,  and,  but  for  a  loving  wife, 
Eight  then  and  there  would  have  ended  the  cobbler's  mis 
spent  life, 
And  Jim  resolved,  when  health  returned,  no  more  he'd  be 

a  clod — 
He  had  worked  and  sung  for  the  devil ;  now  he'd  work  and 

sing  for  God. 

And  how  Jim  worked,  and  how  he  sang,  'twas  glorious  to 

see 
No  living  soul  upon  the  earth  was  happier  than  he ! 


138  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

And  every  time  his  hammer  fell,  or  home  a  nail  he  drove 

in, 

He'd  say :   "There  goes  another  blow  at  misery  and  sin !" 
The  dogs,  that  never  came  near  Jim  without  a  blow  or 

kick, 
Saw  Jim  had  changed,  and  bravely  came  his  proffered  hand 

to  lick; 

For,  even  in  animals,  the  power,  the  instinct  lies 
To  tell  if  God  or  Satan  looks  at  them  through  human  eyes. 


Yes,  Jim  had  "got  religion,"  and  it  didn't  make  him  sad — 
He  had  the  proper  Christlike  kind  that  ever  makes  one 

glad; 
The  kind  that  lights  the  heart  and  soul,  and  drives  out 

gloom  and  fear; 
The  kind  that  fills  one's  life  with  joy  and  heaven  itself 

draws  near; 
The  kind  that  makes  the  grave  itself  a  stepping-stone  to 

bless — 

No  other  kind  is  Christ-inspired  unless  it's  like  to  this — 
For  misery,  despair,  and  gloom  can  never  have  a  part 
In  any  truly  Christian  life  when  Christ  is  in  the  heart. 


Let's  take  a  leaf  from  out  Jim's  book,  and  when  our  lives 

seem  dark 

Let's  jom  our  voices  with  the  birds,  and  imitate  the  lark, 
And  make  our  hymns  of  joyfulness  to  heaven's  gates  as 
cend, 
And  angels  gathered  'round  the  throne  a  listening  ear  will 

lend 

And  join  their  melodies  with  ours,  until  all  heaven  rings 
With  mighty  Alleuiahs  grand  unto  the  King  of  kings; 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  139 

And  God  will  hear  our  anthems,  and  a  blessing  then  from 

Him 
Will  fill  our  livas  with  sunshine,  and  make  us  just  like 

Jim. 


GOD    KNOWS. 

HEN  the  sea  of  life  is  stormy  and  o'ercast, 
And  the  clouds  of  trouble  gather  grim  and 

fast, 

And  the  heart  is  weary  sighing 
In  the  breast  where  hope  lies  dying, 
And  all  the  joy  of  life  is  o'er  and  past — 
Sink  not,  oh,  weary  brother,  'neath  thy  woes, 
Fear  not  the  awesome  tempest  as  it  grows ; 
Eevive  thy  strength  declining; 
For,  behind  the  clouds  now  lining 
Thy  path,  God's  sun's  still  shining,  and 
He  Knows! 

When  the  still,  small  voice  of  conscience  pleads  in  vain, 
And  the  wayward  feet  stray  off  in  Pleasure's  train, 
And  the  old,  old  faith's  neglected, 
And  every  thought's  directed 
To  unhallowed  ends,  the  lust  and  greed  of  gain; 
Remember,  though  thine  eyes  thou  mayest  close 
To  the  path  thou'rt  treading  and  the  way  it  goes 
Down,  down  the  road  of  ruin, 
With  its  wrecks  the  wayside  strewing, 
God  grieves  o'er  all  thou'rt  doing,  for 
He  Knows! 


140  UNCLE   CHAKLIE'S   POEMS. 

Take  heed,  oh,  weary  brother,  in  the  strife ; 
This  is  not  all,  the  thing  that  we  call  life, 
With  its  turmoil  and  its  laughter, 
With  its  tears  swift  following  after, 
Its  murm'rings  and  contentions  ever  rife. 
There's  a  land  far,  far  above  the  Alpine  snows 
Devoid  of  pain,  and  sorrows  anguished  throes ; 
There  angels  now  entreat  thee 
To  enter,  and  will  meet  thee 
With  a  smile,  and  God  will  greet  thee,  for 
He  Knows! 


THE  ACTORS    CORNER. 

Dedicated  to  Francis  Wilson,  Esq. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 


THE  ACTOR'S  PRAYER  GUARANTEED  TO  MEET 
ALL    CONTINGENCIES. 

H,  kindly  Providence,  I  pray  thee  send 
An  angel  for  my  guide,  I  need  a  friend; 
Not  one  of  those  with  feathers,  robes  and  wings, 
For,  at  the  best,  they're  useless  sort  of  things; 
But  one  with  whiskers  and  the  needful  dough 
To  take  me  on  the  road,  so  I  may  show 
The  Hayseeds,  Jays,  Yahoos,  and  such  like  yaps, 
That  I'm  the  greatest  Genius  born,  perhaps. 
And  I  would  ask  thee  likewise  to  provide 
A  sure-thing  play  through  which,  ah,  let  me  glide, 
The  cynosure  of  every  envious  eye; 
And  calcium  by  the  million  tanks  supply, 
So  that  the  stage's  center  I  can  hog 
And,  bathed  in  radiance,  put  on  endless  "dog." 

Give  me  week-stands,  and  in  the  Pullman  cars  * 

The  lower  berth ;  and  may  the  hotel  bars 

Be  gen'rous  with  the  intoxicating  cup, 

And  prompt  the  barkeep's  heart  to  "chalk  it  up/' 

In  "three-per"  hostelries,  oh,  grant  I  may 

Secure  a  rate  of  one  cold  plunk  per  day, 

With  ample  table  and  the  necessary  heat, 

Plus  an  electric  bell,  so  I  may  greet 

The  clerks  and  bell-boys,  much  to  their  delight, 

And  keep  them  in  a  ferment  day  and  night 

Grant  that  my  name  in  letters  ten  feet  high 
May  smite  me  as  I  pass  the  billboards  by, 
And  ev'ry  news-sheet  that  I  chance  to  see, 
May  it  contain  some  paragraph  of  me. 


144  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

Some  fiendish,  lie,  perhaps,  I  do  not  care, 
So  that  my  name  in  good  black  type  is  there. 
Grant  that  the  girls  with  me  may  fall  in  love 
And,  after  matinees,  may  push  and  shove 
'  To  see  me  from  the  stage's  door  emerge, 
And  then  in  serried  ranks  about  me  surge, 
Falling  adoringly  upon  their  knees ; 
Providence,  oh,  send  me  triumphs  such  as  these. 

Oh,  rid  me  from  those  all-pestiferous  ills — 

The  tailors',  butchers',  bakers',  printers'  bills,  • 

Shedding  my  obligations  smilingly 

By  judicious  dalliance  with  bankruptcy. 

Oh,  grant  that  she,  my  cumbrous,  unloved  spouse, 

No  hornet's  nest  about  me  may  arouse ; 

For  alimony  grant  she  may  not  sue, 

But  support  herself — as  all  good  wives  should  do. 

Send  fortune  golden,  capped,  wine,  women,  song, 
And  let  me  walk  Broadway  the  whole  day  long; 
Envied  and  ogled  down  the  lane  to  flit, 
"The  man  that  has  arrived,"  the  man  thatfs  "It." 
These  trifling  favors  grant  to  me,  I  pray, 
Though  more  I  need,  this  will  suffice  to-day, 
And  on  account,  oh,  Providence,  send  "ten"; 
I  guess  that's  all  I  want  just  now — Amen. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  145 


A  NOVELTY  AT  LAST. 

HE  manager,  with  haughty  mien,  sat  in  his  office 

chair ; 
And  actresses  of  note  and  fame  surged  'round 

about  him  there. 
"I  drove  them  wild  last  season/'  said  a  voluble  soubrette, 
"And  from  Buffalo  to  Kankakee  they  talk  about  me  yet. 
My  double  hand-spring  kills  'em  dead — laugh,  well,  say, 

they  roar — 
They  flop  right  over  in  their  seats,  and  roll  clean  on  the 

floor. 
Say,  I'm  the  one  to  knock  'em  cold."    The  manager  looked 

vexed, 

And,    scarcely   deigning   her   a  word,   impatiently   said: 
"Next." 

The  next  was  shy  on  youth  and  looks,  but  talent  shone  from 

out 

Her  eyes,  which  blazed  with  genius,  and  then  she  told  about 
Those  days  with  Booth  and  Barrett,  with  Jefferson  and 

Kean, 

And  other  stars  legitimate,  long  vanished  from  the  scene. 
"I  know  your  record,  madam !"  said  the  listening  manager ; 
"But  I'm  looking  for  a  novelty — some  one  to  make  a  stir ; 
Some  one  to  make  the  whole  world  talk,  and  play  to 

S.  E.  0. 
Nothing  doing  in  your  line ;  if  there  is,  I'll  let  you  know." 

Approached  him  now  a  gorgeous  'girl,  her  carriage  stood 

without : 
She  was  of  Mayflower  pedigree — a  girl  folks  raved  about; 


146  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

She'd  wearied  of  society,  now  nothing  could  assuage 
Her  craving  for  excitement  but  a  life  upon  the  stage. 
She  spoke,  and  then  the  manager  replied  all  in  a  breath : 
"The  society  racket,  madam,  I  find's  been  done  to  death ; 
There's  not  a  dollar  in  it."    The  fair  girl  gave  a  pout 
As  the  office-boy  threw  wide  the  door,  and  quickly  bowed 
her  out. 

Deep  sighed  the  manager  and  gazed  with  troubled,  weary 

air 

Upon  a  dashing  figure  that  drew  near  his  office-chair. 
"You'll  remember  I'm  the  heroine  of  the  famous  Jones 

divorce," 
The  imperious  creature  rattled  on;  "you  know  of  me,  of 

course. 

I'm  pictured  in  the  papers,  and  my  name's  on  every  page ; 
The  whole  world's  simply  crazy  to  see  me  on  the  stage. 
I'd  pack  the  houses."    "Is  that  so?"  the  manager  replied. 
"I'm  sorry  that  we  differ.     John,  show  the  lady,  please, 

outside." 

Diamonds,  dresses,  old  blue  blood  no  longer  are  the  thing ; 
Dames  from  high  society,  not  a  dollar  do  they  bring. 
Divorcees  they  are  passe,  not  one  of  them  will  do — 
Oh,  pray  excuse  me,  madam,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 
Before  him  stood  a  woman  who,  for  quite  a  little  while, 
Had  all  the  country  guessing  in  a  famous  murder  trial. 
The  manager  'rose  promptly,  and  showed  her  to  the  door, 
And   said:    "The  murder  racket,   ma'am,   I   find's  been 
worked  before." 

A  prim  and  modest  matron  now  into  the  office  strayed ; 
The  managerial  X-ray  eyes  like  searchlights  on  her  played. 
"I  am  a  woman,"  she  began,  "who's  led  a  blameless  life; 
One  husband's  all  I  ever  had,  I'm  proud  to  be  his  wife; 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

I  mind  my  business,  stay  at  home;  my  scrubbing,  cooking 

do; 

I  crave  no  costly  dresses,  all  I  have  or  want  is  two; 
I  never  scandalize  or  lie;  I  never  get  enraged. 
The  manager,  as  he  dropped  dead,  said :   "MADAM,  YOU'RE 

ENGAGED  !" 


REFLECTIONS    OF   THE    STAGE    VILLAIN. 

ITY  the  sorrows  of  a  villainous  old  man 

Who  now,  alas !  approaches  life's  allotted  span, 
And  soon  eternity  and  the  unknown  must  face 
With  fainting  heart  and  ne'er  a  single  hope  of 

grace. 

For,  oh,  my  very  soul  is  steeped  in  fiendish  crime, 
Which  I  must  expiate  on,  on  through  endless  time. 

From  Maine  to  Texas,  from  Key  West  to  Oregon, 
There  runs  a  gory  trail  of  ghastly  deeds  I've  done. 
In  Oshkosh,  Eed  Bank  and  each  cross-roads  town 
My  victims  cry  for  vengeance,  and  the  angels  frown 
As  overtime  they  work  to  record  keep 
Of  all  my  wanton  infamies  so  foul  and  deep. 

I  do  mind  me  of  the  time  when  I,  a  strippling,  went 

Upon  the  stage,  of  man's  blood  innocent. 

But  villainy  was  quickly  portioned  as  my  lot, 

And,  ere  the  night  had  gone,  sixteen  poor  souls  I'd  shot ; 

And  stabbed,  aye,  many  more,  and  poisoned  twenty-two, 

As  it  is  wont  for  villains  on  the  stage  to  do. 

For  full  twice-twenty  years  my  life  of  crime  has  run, 
And  every  wanton  deed  that's  known  to  man  I've  dona 


148 


UNCLE    CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 


Eight  thousand  murders ;  ye  gods,  what  seas  of  gore ! 
Forgeries,  bigamies,  and  trigamies  galore! 
My  victims  I  both  afternoon  and  night  would  slay, 
And  thus  the  self-same  man  Fd  slaughter  twice  a  day. 

My  conscience  gives  no  rest;  for,  here  upon  Broadway, 

I  see  my  hapless  victims  pass  me  day  by  day. 

Men  whom  I've  shot  and  stabbed,  maids  whose  jugulars 

I've  cut, 

Familiarly  they  nod,  and  leer,  and  past  me  strut, 
And  one,  alas !  there  is  my  wretched  soul  affrights ; 
For  that  same  man  I  murdered  sixteen  'hundred  nights!!! 

And  thus  in  fear  I  wait  the  final  curtain  call, 

My  chance  of  future  mercy  most  exceeding  small. 

The  greatest  villain  that  the  world  has  ever  known, 

One  saving  hope  have  I,  perchance  it  may  atone — 

That  of  the  thousands  I  have  slain  by  murder  fell, 

Not  one  is  dead,  and  all,  thank  heaven !  are  hale  and  well ! 


THE   HUNGRY   THESPIAN. 

HE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  down  Broadway  an  actor  passed, 
And  stopped  to  read,  with  eager  air, 
This  sign  beneath  a  restaurant's  glare: 


LAMB  STEW,  10  CENTS. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  149 

"Touch  not  the  stew/'  an  old  man  said, 
"  'Tis  full  of  microbes ;  so's  the  bread." 
The  actor  man  made  no  reply, 
But  still  read  on,  with  rav'nous  eye: 


CORNED  BEEF  AND 

CABBAGE,  10  CENTS. 


"Beware  the  cabbage  and  the  beef," 
The  old  man  cried,  "or  come  to  grief. 
Appendicitis  lurks  therein." 
The  actor's  voice  'rose  o'er  the  din. 


FRANKFURTERS,  10  CENTS. 


"Avoid  the  sausage,"  loudly  roar'd 

The  warning  voice,  "with  dog  'tis  stored, 

And  other  canine  mysteries  vile." 

Still  Shakespear  Jones  read  on  the  while, 


TWO  FRIED,  10  CENTS. 


150  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

"Leave  eggs  alone/'  the  old  man  spoke, 
"Think  of  the  last  that  on  thee  broke 
And  splashed  thy  face  and  filled  thine  eye." 
On  read  the  thespian,  with  a  sigh, 


SMALL  STEAK,  10  CENTS. 


"Beware  the  steak,"  implored  the  man, 
"For  steak's  beneath  the  Beef  Trust's  ban ; 
'Tis  only  food  for  millionaires. 
Yon  actors  shouldn't  put  on  airs. 
Touch  not  the  steak." 

"Sirrah,  avaunt,"  the  actor  cried, 
"Unhand  me,  scoundrel,  stand  aside. 
I  want  no  viands,  boiled  or  fried ; 
I  never  eat,  and  then,  besides, 
I've  no  darned  10  cents." 


THE  FAMILY  THEATRIC. 

HO  is  it  burns  the  midnight  oil 
And  paper  by  the  tons  will  spoil, 
Swipes  plots  from  Dickens,  Scott  or  Doyle? 

THE    AUTHOR. 


Who  is  it  all  the  checks  doth  sign, 
Backs  the  show — gets  printing  fine, 
And  for  the  soubrette  opens  wine  ? 

THE   ANGEL. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 


Who  is  it  stands  out  in  the  front, 
And  watches  each  and  every  stunt, 
Counts  up  the  house  —  and  does  a  grunt  ? 

THE   MANAGER. 


Who  is  it  calls  you  sharp  at  ten, 
And  says :  "Now,  ladees,  shentlemen, 
Ve  dry  dis  over  vonce  agen"  ? 

DER  HERR  CONDUCTOR. 


Who  is  it,  with  an  eye  intense, 
Seeks  out  some  trivial  offense, 
And  fines  the  whole  crowd  fifty  cents? 

THE  STAGE  MANAGER. 


Who  gets  into  most  awful  scrapes, 
Dares  death  in  fourteen  hundred  shapes, 
And  from  the  villain's  toils  escapes  ? 

THE    HERO. 


Who  is  it,  dressed  in  sombre  black, 

Weeps,  wrings  her  hands,  and  says :  "Alack !" 

And  on  the  villain  turns  her  back  ? 

THE   HEROINE. 


Who  raises  trouble  by  the  peck, 
The  hero's  life  starts  out  to  wreck, 
And  later  gets  it  in  the  neck  ? 

THE   VILLAIN. 


Who  is  it  finds  the  stolen  will, 
O'erhears  the  villain's  plans  to  kill, 
And  with  him  "raises  'Samuel  Hill'  "? 

THE    COMEDIAN. 


152  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Who  is  it  keeps  the  house  in  roars, 
Dusts  furniture,  and  opens  doors, 
And  does  a  dance  to  six  encores  ? 

THE    SOUBRETTE. 


Who  is  it  hands  you  gun  and  sword, 
And  of  stage-money  keeps  a  hoard, 
And  over  everything  is  lord  ? 

HIS  MAJESTY  "PROPS/ 


Whom  do  we  talk  of  tremblingly, 
With  bated  breath,  and  dread  that  he 
May  fail  "to  walk" — oh,  misery  ? 

The  beloved  and  all  necessary  "GHOST." 


Who  is  it  starts  to  scandalize, 

Spreads  discord  fierce,  tells  endless  lies 

And  has  the  whole  crowd  by  the  eyes  ? 

THE    SOUBRETTE'S   MAMA. 


Who  is  it  to  the  show  will  come 
In  numbers  scanty,  faces  glum, 
And  then  go  homerand  say  "it's  bum"  ? 

THE    AUDIENCE. 


Who  is  it  trouble  fierce  will  hatch, 
And,  when  you  go  your  train  to  catch, 
Your  trunk  and  gripsack  will  attach  ? 

THE  LANDLORD. 


Who  is  it  weary,  sad  and  sore, 

Hoofs  o'er  the  ties  a  week  or  more 

And,  Broadway  reached,  cries  out  for  gore  ? 

THE   TROUPE. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  153 


THE   TRAGEDIAN'S    SOLILOQUY. 

(Parodies  on  Shakespeare.} 

0  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  ihe  conundrum, 
Whether  it  is  wiser  to  be  biffed  in  the  eye 
By  the  o'erripe  fruit  of  the  domestic  hen, 
Or  to  be  soaked  and  assaulted  on  the  ear 

By  the  abhorrent  and  decayed  vegetable. 

Who  would  hotel-bills  pay,  to  sweat  under  a  heavy  burden, 

When  he  can  the  dull  landlord  easily  evade 

By  a  noiseless  descent  of  the  convenient  fire-escape? 

Is  this  a  ham  sandwich  that  I  see  before  me  ? 

Come  thou  tempting  morsel,  let  me  catch  thee, 

And  to  this  yawning  stomach  beat  a  swift  retreat, 

And  give  the  lie  to  those  who  say  I  never  eat. 

Oh,  oft  have  I  been  called  "ham,"  now  void  of  pelf, 

I  would,  ye  gods,  I  were  a  ham — that  I  might  eat  myself. 

Be  thou  an  Actor  or  a  Variety  man  damned, 

Bring  with  thee  Shakespeare  from  Heaven,  or  rag-time 

from,  well — 

Is  it  thy  purpose  to  oust  me  from  the  classic  boards 
And  drive  me  barnstorming  to  the  Hayseed  hordes  ? 
Thy  mummery  of  song  and  dance  is  for  the  City's  great, 
While  Shakespeare's  for  the  varlets  vile  of  low  estate. 

Oh,  what  a  falling  off  was  there,  from  the  "Immortal 

Will," 

To  this  hell  broth  of  rubbish — vaudeville — 
This  seething  caldron  of  diablerie, 
Legs,  loveliness,  jag-time  and  lunacy. 


154  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

Most  impotent,  grave  and  irreverend  Hayseeds, 
My  very  ignoble  and  disapproved  bad  Masters, 
That  I  have  deigned  to  show  you  good  acting,  'tie  most 

true, 
And  my  genius  is  lost  on  Punkinheads  like  you. 

Superb  am  I  in  my  speech, 

And  but  little  versed  in  the  wily  ways  of  commerce; 
For,  since  I  was  to  a  grasshopper  that  much  high, 
I  have  pursued  the  Actors'  Art,  and  hoofed  the  tie, 
Carrying  a  banner  or  spear,  at  "three  per"  week, 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  now  speak 
More  than  pertains  to  things  strictly  theatrical. 

The  quality  of  whiskey  is  much  strained, 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  Heaven 

Upon  the  thirsty  palate  of  the  Thespian  beneath. 

She  loved  me  for  the  gallons  of  it  I  had  drank, 

And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  admire  my  wondrous  tank. 

He  who  steals  my  purse  steals  trash ; 
For,  being  a  Tragedian's  purse,  the  darn  thing's  minus 
cash. 


LAMENT   OF   A   SAD    TRAGEDIAN. 

HIS  wretched  world  is  out  of  joint,  the  sad  Trage 
dian  said; 
The  classic  drama's  buried,  great  Shakespeare's 

doubly  dead ; 

Art's  sacred  lamp  has  flickered  out,  its  temples  they  pro 
fane 
With  exhibitions  lewd,  nude,  rude,  and  wickedly  inane. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  155 

Could  I  fall  down  a  flight  of  stairs,  or  waltz  upon  my  nose, 
I'd  be  the  star  attraction  of  ten  hundred  different  shows; 
But,  with  only  art  to  recommend,  I  fain  must  disappear ; 
Oh,  thou  immortal  Bard,  look  down — Ah,  thanks!    Make 
mine  a  beer! 

But  yesterday  I  hied  me  to  a  catiff  agent's  den. 

"Your  line  of  business,  sir,  is  dead/'  he  said,  and  straight 
way  then 

He  offered  me — keep  still  my  heart,  and  burst  not  from  thy 
bounds — 

A  thinking  part  in  "Uncle  Tom,"  play  brass,  and  tend  the 
hounds, 

Understudy  Eva,  to  dance — sand,  jig,  buck,  clogs; 

Give  out  vile  dodgers  to  the  mob,  and  sleep  among  the  dogs, 

With  bloodhounds  for  my  roommates !  Great '  shades  of 
Shakespeare  hear, 

The  drama's  dead,  defunct,  deceased — Oh,  thanks !  Once 
more  a  beer! 

Another  catiff  agent  offered  me  employment  vile ; 

He  called  the  job  a  lead-pipe  cinch,  and  smiled  a  ghastly 
smile. 

The  piece  was  named  the  "Hooligans — The  Happy  Danc 
ing  Micks," 

And  in  it  I  was  savagely  assaulted,  sir,  with  bricks ; 

All  through  the  piece  it  showered  bricks — if  not,  I  had  to 
stoop 

While  slapsticks  on  my  pants  were  drummed  by  all  that 
wretched  troupe. 

Again  I  ask:  "Art  thou  not  dead,  thou  Bard  of  Avon, 
dear?" 

Ah,  doubly  moribund  thou  art — Ah,  thanks !  Another 
beer! 


156  UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS. 

But  yesterday  they  proffered  me  a  most  revolting  role, 
The  insult  of  that  offer  vile  sank  deep  into  my  soul; 
I,  that  have  played  with  Edwin  Booth,  with  Barrett,  and 

with  Kean, 

Was,  for  a  paltry  pittance,  my  manhood  to  demean — 
And  drain  the  cup  of  misery  unto  its  very  dregs 
By  capering  in  a  mad  burlesque  as  the  elephant's  hind  legs ! 
An  insult,  sir !   An  outrage,  sir !   A  most  revolting  crime ! 
Oh,  Bard  of  Avon,  me  avenge ! — Thanks  !  Whiskey  straight 

this  time. 

Alas,  the  depths  to  which  we  lights  of  palmy  days  have 

sunk, 
The  brimful  cup  of  misery,  whose  dregs  perforce  we've 

drunk, 

Have  not  been  told  in  full  till  I,  with  aching  heart,  reveal 
What  I  within  mine  inmost  soul  no  longer  can  conceal : 
A  medicine  show  engaged  me  to  declaim,  orate,  recite, 
And  to  swallow  pills  between  the  acts — the  memory  of  that 

night — 

With  mortal  horror  fills  me,  and  terrors  on  me  seize. 
Oh,  art  thou'rt  dead  and  doubly  damned — Ah,  Blackberry 

brandy,  please! 


A  HARD-LUCK  STORY. 

TUENING  THE  TABLES. 

HE  hard-up  actor  sa,w  with  ioy  a  friend  of  his  draw 

near. 
He  needed  .fifty  bones — the  chance  to  get  the 

"bones"  was  here. 
His   friend    had   prospered   wondrously — had    diamonds, 

bonds  and  that, 

While  he  was  "stony/'  "busted,"  "broke,"  and  hungry  as  a 
rat. 


UNCLE   CHARLIE'S   POEMS.  157 

"How  do,  old  chap;  delighted  much  to  see  you,"  then  he 

said. 

"Must  have  'fifty'  quick,  old  chap ;  an  aunt  of  mine  is  dead. 
The  Potters'  field  will  get  her,  if  I  can't  raise  the  dough ; 
So  you'll  let  me  have  that  'fifty,'  for  old  times'  sake,  I 

know." 


"Well,  Jack,  old  boy,"  his  friend  replied,  "there's  not  a 

single  thing 

I  would  not  do  for  you,  old  chap,  for  recollections  bring 
The  time  when  you  were  good  to  me,  when  we  were  strapped 

out  West ; 

But  I've  got  troubles  of  my  own — troubles  like  the  rest. 
I  know  my  season  has  been  good ;  I  cleared  a  tidy  pile, 
But  for  the  last  few  weeks,  old  chap,  my  luck's  been  simply 

vile. 
You've  lost  an  aunt,  I've  buried  four,  my  mother's  scarce 

alive  ,- 
Won't  last  the  day."    "Too  bad,"  said  Jack;  "we'll  make 

it  'twenty-five.' " 

"Twenty-five !   That's  kind  of  you,  to  put  it  down  so  low ; 

I  could  have  managed  that  all  right,  but  'bout  two  days 
ago 

The  baby  started  yelling,  and  we  got  a  doctor  quick. 

The  'kid'  had  'pendicitis,  and  was  critically  sick. 

Operation  then  and  there ;  had  nurses  by  the  score ; 

Cost  me  sixteen  hundred  cold,  and  may  cost  that  much 
more. 

In  fact,  dear  Jack,  you  can't  conceive  how  hoodooed  I  have 
been." 

"As  that's  the  case,"  Jack  murmured,  "suppose  we  say  'fif 
teen'"* 


158  UNCLE  CHARLIE'S  POEMS. 

"Fifteen,  old  boy;  that  isn't  much;  a  trifle,  I'll  admit, 

But  you  can't  realize,  old  chap,  how  badly  I've  been  hit. 

I  bought  a  house,  and  paid  for  it — a  house  that  you'd  ad 
mire — 

But  forgot  about  insurance,  and,  of  course,  the  place  took 
fire. 

Everything  we  had  was  burned,  my  uncle  died  of  shock ; 

The  funeral  takes  place  to-day,  at  half-past  three  o'clock. 

Can't  pay  the  undertaker,  boy,  my  grief  is  just  intense." 

"That's  tough,  indeed,  old  boy,"  said  Jack ;  "we'll  make  it 
'fifty  cents"  ! 

"Ah,  now  you're  talking,  Jack,  old  boy ;  you're  getting  near 

the  mark, 
But,  as  I  walked  downtown  to-day,  I  came  through  Central 

Park; 

A  gang  of  toughs  set  on  to  me,  great  Scott !  I  had  a  time ; 
Nearly  lost  my  life,  old  chap — swiped  my  every  dime. 
I  shouted  'Murder!'  and  'Police!'  till  the  scoundrels  ran 

away. 

Haven't  got  a  blessed  cent  to  buy  a  meal ;  and,  say, 
Instead  of  staking  you,  old  chap,  I  wish,  right  now  and 

here, 
You'd  hock  your  coat  and  pants,  dear  boy,  and  go  buy  me 

a  beer." 


THE  END. 


ARE  YOU  IN  LOVE? 

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Absence. 

Affection. 

Anticipation. 

Expectation. 

Attractiveness. 

Bashfulness. 

Beauty. 

Blushes. 

Bliss. 

Bride. 

Caprice. 

Charm. 

Confidence. 

Compliments. 

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Coquette. 

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Wooing. 

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Doubt.  • 

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Eyes. 

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2S 

THE  L1BKA1 
tSITY  OF  CAL1 


PS     Douglas  - ^«, 

3507   Uncle  Charlie  s  * 
poems 


PS 
3507 


